Myosotis
by alasweneverdo
Summary: It was a waiting game. She could learn to be good at waiting. - The coming of age tale of Hermione Granger and the infuriating species called men. Various one-sided pairings, canonical character deaths, and instances of social ineptitude.
1. Insufferable

"Now, I have come here to tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger," said the old and bespectacled man who had shown up at their door, "that your daughter is a witch."

The Grangers exchanged glances. "That certainly explains a few things," said Mr. Granger.

It may have been obsessive on her part, but once she received the telltale letter—delivered by the headmaster of her new school himself—Hermione began a thorough and eager investigation of the wizarding world. She was determined to know and understand as much as possible before her first year at Hogwarts, from the Ministry of Magic to the Hogwarts founders to Harry Potter.

And that Harry Potter was quite a curious topic.

She met him on the train to Hogwarts, with his too-large shirt and too-stupid friend. How disappointing that he didn't seem at all special; he and the redhead gave her the same disparaging look that all the others had worn around her so far, and that she had become accustomed to in primary school. It was a look people got when they saw someone who knew too much. She left them in a huff to return to Neville.

"Insufferable," she declared. The meek and pudgy boy stumbling behind her let out a squeak. "Oh, not you, Neville. Potter and Weasley. Arrogant prats, if you ask me." She sniffed.

"Well, that is, my gran says you shouldn't judge someone by f-first impression," piped up Neville. "Unless you've got good reason not to—you know, with Dark Wizards and all. They can't be that bad. I mean, _Harry Potter_…"

The noise that came out of her was somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Celebrities are the _worst_ kind of arrogant, Neville. Honestly." Looking back over her shoulder, she smiled. "Now let's find Trevor, shall we?"

And what a frustrating, irresponsible pair the Potter-Weasley duo turned out to be, too. It was one thing to be such simple-minded _idiots_ as they appeared in class, but she caught them sneaking off at night for duels and nearly getting themselves (and her, and not to mention poor Neville) eaten alive by three-headed monstrosities that shouldn't rightly exist outside the realm of myth.

But frankly, that wasn't even what angered her most.

"_I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, expelled_."

They had a blatant disregard for rules the likes of which Hermione had never seen before. They were reckless, moronic, completely lacking in tact—and they didn't want to be friends with her. It wasn't as though she _cared_, since she could honestly do without the sort of friends who would get her into trouble on a weekly basis anyway.

She wasn't jealous of the others in her year making friends so quickly, either. It didn't bother her at all to see Lavender and Parvati acting as though they'd known each other their entire lives. Nor did she care that Potter and Weasley had been best friends from the moment they met on the train. She didn't need friends, didn't particularly _want_ them, even. There wasn't a fiber in her that had an interest in laughing and chatting and bonding with people who had previously treated her like some kind of weirdo.

Well, until they saved her life, of course.

Now, to be fair, she had technically saved her own life by correcting Ronald's pronunciation of the spell earlier that day. She could not, however, take credit for Harry jumping on the troll's back and unceremoniously thrusting his wand up its nostril, so the way she saw it, he was really the one who had really done the saving. And maybe that caused her to feel a bit of affection for him, since he, after all, had never made her cry (so when she thought about it, the redhead had done nothing helpful, it being his fault that her life was endangered to begin with).

And this affection did not at all lead her to absentmindedly scribble his name on her parchment a few times here and there, no; that would be ridiculous.

"Hermione, could I borrow your notes?"

"I, erm—it's not—I'll just make you a copy!"

Normally Hermione Granger was not one for crushes. All the boys she knew before Hogwarts treated her contemptibly, and many of her classmates now were, well… not known for their wit or charm. Yet the more she got to know the green-eyed and stubborn young wizard, the more she saw his nerve, adventurousness and compassion that put all around him to shame. Come to think, the only other boy she had fancied was also vision-impaired and fairly bold, though in primary school that had mostly entailed falling out of impossibly high spots in trees. His specs had also been in a perpetual state of disrepair, though if she'd known how to really use her magic back then, it would have been a quick fix, just like Harry's.

But this—this was different in too many ways to count. These weren't simply adventures around the park like back in those days; this was a stumble through ancient and fantastical secrets, traipsing straight into the legends themselves. And with all that was going on, she was beginning to get the feeling that Harry Potter was a better person than she could hope to be.

On an afternoon following the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff yet still prior to Norbert, Hermione had convinced the boys to join her in the library for a day of revision. Her friends looked ready to claw out their own eyes in boredom while she rattled off spells, dates and antidotes—quietly, of course, to ensure Madam Pince wouldn't bare her fangs at them.

"Hermione, I really don't think half these things will even be on the exams," Ron complained, scratching his dry quill against the parchment.

She glowered at him. "Well, then you'll just be _highly_ prepared for the half that _are_," she retorted.

Playing peacekeeper once again, Harry asked, "What if we just take a break? Only for a bit," he added at her raised-eyebrow expression. "We could walk down to the lake or pay Hagrid a visit. Just to clear our heads a little." Hermione nodded, finding this reasonable, while Ron looked as though Harry had just told him they were headed to the Great Hall for a buffet of chocolate and cake.

She was beginning to enjoy her time spent with Harry more and more, especially when Ron was absent. Even detention with him was a positive experience, despite having to constantly resist the urge to cling to his arm in fear as they trudged through the Forbidden Forest. Unicorns were something she could handle; what girl didn't dream of having one herself? Even with Hagrid in front of them, though, she felt like a creature in peril. Something was watching from the shadows, darker than the forest itself, waiting—

"Hermione, you can let go now," Harry whispered.

She did. "Oh. Sorry."

Even though she and the boys were getting on like a house on fire, there were some things she didn't tell them about. The occasional afternoon tea with Professor McGonagall was one of those things. The aging woman had begun to invite Hermione to her office when she noticed her most promising student was always alone, before, during, and after class.

"I noticed you've grown quite close to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall that week.

Hermione, who had just been stirring in her sugar, slowed her movements. "Yes, well." She straightened. "They aren't so bad, really. Even if they are complete simpletons."

McGonagall was visibly suppressing a smile. "As I'm sure you are aware, Miss Granger, men are not especially fond of being told just how unintelligent you think they are," she said before taking a sip.

"Well, then it's a good thing they have time to get used to it before they become men." This time the woman laughed softly.

She really didn't mind being around them most of the time, which was more than she could say for anyone she'd met before. And maybe the Gryffindor spirit was rubbing off on her: the goody-two-shoes in her was steadily being replaced by a more daring and foolhardy girl who snuck off with her friends to watch dragons hatch, who set teachers' robes on fire, who set off with just a pair of prepubescent boys to try their hand at saving the wizarding world.

When it came down to risking life and limb for her friends, Hermione found she needed no convincing. Even if it were just for Ron's sake—Ron, who was so lacking in every way compared to Harry, from his obtuseness to his too-long nose and too-tall stature—she would have put her life on the line. And she did, too, in taking that potion, hoping with all her heart that all the bits of cleverness she had stored up in her little body were enough. Amazingly, _impossibly, _she pulled through. Not because she fancied herself a great heroine, but because it was difficult to picture life at Hogwarts or anywhere else without the two boys she had begun to grow with. The truest friends she'd ever had. Maybe the only ones.

"_Harry—you're a great wizard, you know_."

"_I'm not as good as you_."

"_Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and—_"

It was probably for the best, she realized after her friend's emergence from his confrontation with Vol—that is, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if she just ignored her feelings for Harry and moved on. They were both just silly, naïve little kids—albeit ones who had been labeled as heroes for going through extreme peril to thwart the aforementioned Dark wizard—and she should know better than to let her emotions get the best of her. She was supposed to be intelligent, and intellectuals could presumably make logical choices, couldn't they? When she returned home for the summer, she repeated to herself ad nauseam that fancying Harry was not a logical choice. And for a time, that was the end of that.

"How was your first year, then?" asked Mr. Granger. He reached across the table for the butter.

Hermione swung her legs back and forth, fork poking at her salad. It was nowhere near as luscious and crisp as the food from the Great Hall. Already she missed the subtle must of the library, the always-fresh bedsheets that were flawlessly tucked, the gentle white noise of the common room. "Wonderful," she said. "Unbelievable, really."

Her parents smiled. She smiled back, not mentioning the death-defying risks she had taken. She just wanted them to be happy, really. Worrying about her surely wasn't conducive to that.

* * *

All right. I've already written out this entire story (for once) so I'll be posting a chapter every few days. This means you'll actually get a finished multi-chapter fic! Crazy, eh?

Feedback is welcome_—_and appreciated_—_though keep in mind that the only changes I'll be making are on typos and factual errors. Out-of-character moments and inconsistencies will just cause me to hang my head in shame and promise to do better next time.

This chapter is a bit slow, but the story picks up as they get older, I swear.


	2. The Right Kind of Blond

At the start of the term, Hermione's cleverness remained irrefutable in the eyes of her peers, and by now they were so used to her displays of flagrant superiority that it had ceased to be annoying, judging by the great reduction of eye-rolls and groans. The way she saw it, they would find her talents more impressive if they realized how hard she was working to pretend she had a crush on that fool Lockhart. She expected to receive her Olivier any day now.

Harry and Ron, meanwhile, remained as reckless as ever. Commandeering Mr. Weasley's flying car could be added to the list of their growing acts of gross misconduct. It was a shame they didn't put more effort into performing well in class and less into making mischief. Sooner or later they would become model replicas of Ron's brothers, Fred and George.

At least, however, they didn't drone on about the opposite sex. "I was sure there would be at least a _few_ cute boys here," Lavender Brown whined one night in their dormitory, combing knots out of her hair with a pout. "If not for Professor Lockhart we would be facing a _dramatic_ shortage of good looks!"

Hermione found herself agreeing with the first part. As for the second half—well. Gilderoy Lockhart may have appeared handsome and charming to a middle-aged housewife (take Molly Weasley, for instance) but to Hermione his hair was the wrong kind of blond, his teeth were too bright, and his wardrobe was pathetically ostentatious. He was an utter joke.

She was left with no choice but to keep up the charade, however, for the sake of keeping people from thinking that she was incapable of liking boys—or from thinking she liked Harry, which she vehemently insisted she did _not_. People, as it happened, were always assuming things when a boy and a girl were close friends. It was the unfortunate consequence of being the only female in her trio of friends. This was all preferable, though, to consorting with girls like Lavender.

She did have other friends, though. Well, _kind_ of. Neville was her friend, she thought, even if they didn't talk often outside of class. That was, she had to admit, almost entirely because of how frustrating it was to try to tutor him. His memory tended to be… awful. He was even in the habit of forgetting the password to Gryffindor Tower on occasion. But he was also the least judgmental person she had ever met, and whether she fancied Harry, Lockhart or anyone else, Neville wouldn't care. That made it a tad easier.

"_Why have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?_"

Not by much, though.

And while it pained her to admit it, a certain Slytherin in their year could be the _right_ kind of blond, if only he would wipe that hideous scowl off his face and erase his grotesque personality along with it. She was watching him one day during Potions, wondering if maybe he could be cute if he were normal and not a prejudiced little sod. The two of them had been made partners by Snape, Merlin knows why, and she had already finished her work on the potion. Stealing secretive glances at him and his not-too-yellow hair as he stirred their concoction seemed better than doing nothing, really.

Draco had caught her in the act, his nose scrunching in obvious distaste. "Do you have something to say, Mudblood?" he sneered.

Her nose twitched as she lifted her chin in an attempt to act as though she'd taken no offense. "I'm thinking about just how lucky you are, actually," she replied.

This was clearly not the answer he had expected, though his look of surprise turned quickly into an egotistical grin. It was not unlike the expression Lockhart adopted whenever he spoke about himself, she noticed. It must have been a personality quirk exclusive to self-loving dolts. "Has the filthy little Muggle-born Granger finally caught on to my superiority, then?"

"No," she said, staring him right in the eye. "Quite the opposite. I was thinking about how fortunate it is for you that Hogwarts accepts any manner of witch or wizard and doesn't discriminate based on real talent or ability. You've been stirring our potion for the past eight minutes when it only called for six, and I believe you added only half the amount of frog brain that the instructions called for." She pointed behind her, indicating a cauldron full of bubbling purple liquid that Malfoy, for all his purported Slytherin cunning, had failed to notice. "You're also lucky to have me as a partner. I doubled each ingredient during preparation in case you managed to mess everything up." The pure-blood gaped in wordless rage. Hermione's smile was that of a self-satisfied cat.

Snape, who didn't seem to appreciate the witch's resourcefulness, docked five points from Gryffindor for "wasting materials." The Potions master didn't see her stick her tongue at him after he passed, nor did he hear a muttered curse a few tables down from an impetuous redhead.

"Granger," called a voice from behind as the trio left class. She turned to find Malfoy with his arms crossed in front of him.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Ron grunted.

The blond gave a great roll of the eyes. "I wasn't talking to you, was I, Weasel Brain?" His gaze returned to Hermione. "Granger can speak for herself."

Her friends started to pull her away, but Hermione held her ground. "What is it?" she asked.

"I don't think you understand the system, so I'll explain it for you." His lackeys shared a look which seemed to indicate they had no idea what system their boss was talking about. It was a good thing he didn't value them for their intellect. "Professor Snape is always going to take my side. If you'd made our potion perfect, it would've been a job well done for me. If you'd screwed it up, he'd give me credit for putting up with you. You can't win. Give it up."

She let out a patient sigh. "You're the one who doesn't seem to understand, Malfoy," she said. "I don't care about his preferential treatment or the house points."

"Then what do you care about?" Malfoy snapped.

"Knowing I'm better than you." With that she turned on her heel and marched off, her friends lagging behind to shoot glares and smug looks at the Slytherins.

Her wonderful, devious, brilliant plan would have been a great way to show Malfoy just what he was messing with, but Hermione was beginning to learn that no plans ever went well at Hogwarts. The Polyjuice had gone horribly wrong for her, and whatever hopes she may have had of being an asset in her own schemes were shattered. She was disgusting, useless, and had left her friends to do everything on their own—well, not that the work involved ended up amounting to much. And anyway, later on in their adventures Hermione would learn what risks were _really_ like.

For now she was left to recover, resisting any and all impulses to groom herself. She wanted only two things at this point: to get better and to be left alone. The former came more slowly than she would have liked, while the latter was far too infrequent, what with Madam Pomfrey's constant bustling and the other students coming in and out of the hospital wing to check on their friends.

The worst part was looking over and seeing the Petrified individuals in their beds when they were being tended to, curtains open. Justin Finch-Fletchley, the first-year Colin Creevey, the caretaker's cat and Gryffindor's resident ghost were all reduced to statues. The sight of them made her wince.

Neville came to visit her every so often, usually in the afternoon. "Sort of creepy, aren't they?" he said with a wary eye on Mrs. Norris. Though he spoke quietly, Madam Pomfrey still turned to glare daggers at him. He gulped and looked down at the floor.

"They are," Hermione agreed, daring the nurse to say a word about it. Madam Pomfrey left in a huff and, possibly on purpose, neglected to close the bed curtains. Neville and Hermione had to make an effort not to look at nor speak of the eerily unmoving cat stationed several feet away.

Professor (if you could even call him that) Lockhart dropped by the next day, his glittering smile showing strain when he hit the wall of odor that filled the room. "My dear Madam Pomfrey, what in Merlin's name is that smell?" he asked with the air of someone inquiring about a bit of unusual weather.

Madam Pomfrey, who had taken a visible disliking to Lockhart ever since the mishap in which he removed the bones from Harry's arm (a memory that made Hermione's nostrils flare in a manner reminiscent of her favorite professor), narrowed her eyes. "I am brewing a potion for the next stage of Miss Granger's treatment," she answered stiffly. "Now, if you would see yourself out, I'd like to administer the first dose." It was not a request.

Lockhart flashed a grin in her direction. "I'll be out of your hair in just a moment!" He turned to Hermione. "I heard you had taken ill, so I've come to wish you a speedy recovery," he said, handing her an envelope. With a wink and a farewell he made his exit. Hermione read the card with a scowl.

Later on, the completely insincere and self-serving note from ended up crammed under her pillow because she had a desperate need for it to remain unseen. Naturally this brought on disgust and amusement from her friends, thinking her fond of it, and she figured all that was at stake by making a little more effort with her lie was her pride, which could live through a wound or two. It was worth it for the time being.

So maybe Lavender was right; perhaps their school did suffer from a shortage of attractive boys. Most of the sort-of-okay ones had disgusting personalities. If not for Harry—

No. She couldn't think like that, as she didn't feel that way toward Harry and refused to entertain the notion. He was her dearest friend, no matter what those thick, infantile dolts were saying about the "Heir of Slytherin," or what her heart was trying to tell her with its incessant thrumming. They were, and would _always_ be, just friends.

More and more mysteries came at them once she recovered. Who was Tom Riddle, why was he trapped in a diary, and what did Hagrid have to do with the string of attacks now and fifty years ago?

Hermione, being the kind of person she was, had everything figured out with just one more trip to the library. And in a moment of unadulterated fear, she scrawled out one word to help him in case everything else went awry (which she knew translated to _in case she was killed_): _Pipes_.

And then she saw yellow and felt her insides and outsides all but turn to stone.

But it was no surprise that, after she was restored from Petrification, she ran into his arms as quickly as her legs could carry her. It was only natural, since he was still a hero and still very much alive, and _god_, she had worried so badly, even when she was just a glorified statue.

The train ride home wasn't so easy that year.

* * *

It continues! I always felt that Hermione's infatuation with Lockhart was _severely_ out of character for her, so I decided to work around it and make up my own explanation.

Hopefully the end wasn't too rushed. Hmm. Well, let me know what you think. :)


	3. Long Overdue

It felt as though her life in the Muggle world was significantly less eventful than all the other students', but she knew from the little that Harry said about his relatives that he struggled outside of school as well. More so than she did, which made her squirm with guilt for her own complaints. She decided to make up for it by getting him something nice from Diagon for his birthday—not that a broom servicing kit could compensate for a terrible childhood, though it couldn't hurt.

Reuniting with her friends at long last that September, she trudged with them through the train, looking for a compartment, and instead finding a mystery.

"_Who d'you reckon he is?_"

"_Professor R.J. Lupin_."

It was an interesting start to her third year, certainly; in their compartment (though really it was _his_ compartment, since he was there long before them), sleeping peacefully, was a thirty-something man with greying hair and rough, poverty-stricken clothing. It made her think of Harry's thin frame and oversized shirts from their first year, and her heart softened a bit for the unfortunate stranger, who soon went on to save their lives.

These were treacherous times. An escaped prisoner with a thirst for Harry's blood roamed the country, his malformed jailers on patrol around the school. The Dementors' residence on the grounds was an ever-present fog on the edges of their minds, creeping in slowly, heralding the cold and danger. Hermione kept one eye on the shadows whenever she could spare it—which, with her impossible schedule, was rarely.

There were a few small comforts allowed to them, however. Hagrid's new position, despite Malfoy's attempts to bugger it up, was a long overdue change. At times she had her doubts as to whether the half-giant was really cut out for teaching, but her cynicism was short-lived: If anyone were born to work with animals, it was Hagrid, and his passion fed into his lessons.

Yet the award for the best newcomer would undoubtedly go to their Defense instructor. Remus Lupin was a man of patience and good humor, who took studies seriously without being strict or inflexible. Despite her disappointment at not being able to tackle the Boggart, she had taken a genuine liking to his lessons—perhaps more so than with any other teacher, she realized with no small measure of surprise. Though Arithmancy remained her favorite subject, naturally.

"It would _not_ have been homework without full marks!" she protested to Ron the next week. They had been bickering back and forth over what shape her Boggart would have taken. Harry rarely, if ever, chose to cut in.

"Expulsion, then," said Ron, his grin smug. "They find out about all the rules you've broken and just chuck you out."

Hermione barely stifled a look of horror before letting out a huff and rummaging through her bag in an attempt to ignore him. She heard him snicker.

The better she got to know Professor Lupin, the more he continued to remind her of Harry, though only in good ways. They both were brave and caring, humble, talented in their own ways. It didn't surprise her at all when Harry said, practically jumping out of his skin with excitement, that Lupin had known his parents. It wouldn't be terribly shocking to her if Lupin himself turned out to be his father, in all honesty. And deep down she would be thrilled if Harry could start a new life with an adoptive parent like Remus Lupin, however unlikely that was.

She still harbored no romantic intentions toward Harry whatsoever, though, and she certainly was not developing a small schoolgirl crush on her knowledgeable Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Or maybe she was, just the tiniest bit. She was under no delusion that the man was terribly handsome or successful—his face, neck and arms were riddled with scars, and if the state of his robes stood as any indication, prior to Hogwarts he had likely been unemployed for some time (Hermione fancied herself a bit of a detective; she'd read plenty of Agatha Christie and she practically knew the adventures of Sherlock Holmes by heart)—yet she had never been faced with his like before. While many adults at the school separated themselves from the fanciful world of youth that their students inhabited, Lupin seemed to embrace it, though not in the way that made him out to be immature; he went forth with the air of someone who had had to grow up in a hurry and cherished what remnants of childhood he could cling to.

And there was, obviously, his bookish intelligence, a trait Hermione had found to be tragically rare in both this world and the Muggle one. He rewarded every one of her correct answers more readily than any professor had in the past, giving her a look that said he knew what it felt like to be scorned for an excess of knowledge. He'd been the friend of a Potter, too, after all. It was cheering to know that finally—_finally_—someone understood.

It was a shame, though, that the world would forever think she'd fancied their _last_ Defense instructor when such a wholly superior one had come to replace him.

"Hermione," Lupin called at the end of one afternoon's lesson. From his first day he had made a point of calling the students by their given names. It was one of the things everyone appreciated about him: He didn't condescend. She stopped in the middle of her hurried packing to glance up at him, noting his concerned expression. "Could you spare a moment?"

A select few of her instructors knew about the Time-Turner, Lupin included. Funny, then, that he would make an inquiry as to whether she had the _time_ to talk. Biting her lip, she nodded and told Ron and Harry to go on without her. The latter hung back a moment, expression curious, before taking his leave.

The rest of the students filed out of the classroom, some laughing at the Hinkypunk from the last lesson that kept squishing against its glass tank. It hopped around on its single leg haughtily and began to sulk. Sighing, Lupin waved his wand to replace the cover on the creature's enclosure, ignoring the little beast's sounds of protest.

After everyone cleared out, the professor gestured for her to approach his desk, behind which he was seated tiredly. The smile he gave her, however, was reassuring. She wasn't in any trouble.

"Sir?" she prompted, fidgeting slightly.

"I've been meaning to ask, Hermione," he said, leaning forward, "about how you're doing with this schedule of yours."

She debated whether she should be truthful or opt instead for polite dishonesty, though at the miniscule hint of sternness on his face she decided it wouldn't do to lie. "It's… challenging," she said carefully. "I'm always busy, and it's been sort of difficult to find time to relax, but…" Trailing off uncertainly, she shrugged and looked away, focusing on one of the morbid and eerie jars on the shelf.

"Are you sure you aren't overworking yourself, Hermione?" he asked. Her eyes flicked back to note his worried frown. "You're an exceptional student, but even the best of us have our limits. No one would think badly of you if you decided it was too much."

Maybe he was right to be concerned. Rather than saying so, she just grinned with confidence she didn't quite feel. "Thank you, Professor, but I think I can manage," she insisted.

She neglected to add, before scurrying off, that she was very sorry he was a werewolf.

It was possible she had told a blatant lie when she said she could handle her workload. Even with the Time Turner she still found herself struggling to keep up with her homework. One would think that the ability to travel backward in time would be enough to ensure punctuality, but she was just so _tired_; her days were twenty-six hours long and filled with studying and practicing and trying not to trip over her own feet. And even with all her busyness she still found time to worry about the endless misfortunes of Harry Potter.

Not that it was appreciated in the slightest, of course: Her attempts to keep him safe by reporting the Firebolt to McGonagall led to her being ostracized. She spent many a day isolated in the library until the broom was returned to its rightful owner. But that wasn't the end of it, oh no; minutes after Harry came to apologize, Ron was in her face with accusations of her cat slaughtering Scabbers. And Harry wasn't helping in the slightest.

"_Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would! First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything's my fault, isn't it! Just leave me alone, Harry, I've got a lot of work to do!_"

She threw herself into her schoolwork and the case for Buckbeak more than ever. At least her visits to Hagrid allowed her to find a sympathetic ear.

"Yeh don' have ter do all this, Hermione," the oversize man told her for what must have been the millionth time. She was poring over legal texts, her face tearstained but determined.

Hermione took a drink of her lukewarm tea. "It's fine, Hagrid," she said distractedly. "Better than staying in the common room. Really, it's no trouble." He gave her a doubtful look but dropped the subject.

With Buckbeak's execution fast approaching and the apologies between Ron and Hermione sorted out, things got worse just as they got better—but not as bad as they would be for Lupin.

Whatever girlish admiration she had felt for the man disappeared on the fateful night that Sirius Black made his escape yet again. It wasn't that she was bothered by his condition, or that she had any qualms with his acquaintanceship with Black; the fact of it was that it was rather difficult to fancy someone after they had turned into a rabid creature and tried to take a bite out of you.

She hated to see the poor man resign, as he was one of the best teachers at Hogwarts—easily the most competent one they'd had for Defense Against the Dark Arts—but that hadn't been her immediate concern as she darted through the woods, fingers intertwined with Harry's, trying so desperately to save a life that had newfound importance. It made her think of another occasion, back when they were just a bit younger, when the two of them snuck between the trees like the anxious little children they had been and still were.

And maybe she found it just a bit exciting, the thrill of the adventure catching up to her when they returned to the hospital wing. After Snape's tirade and Fudge's grumble of defeat, the teenagers exchanged tired smiles, forgetting about their newly conscious friend.

"_What—what happened? Harry? Why are we in here? Where's Sirius? Where's Lupin? What's going on?_"

While Hermione explained the ordeal in detail, Ron gaping in amazement all the while, she saw Harry drift off to a well-deserved sleep.

Overall she supposed it had been a fulfilling year, she thought on the train ride home, what with the lives saved and the things learned and whatnot. But mostly she was just happy her fist had been formally introduced to Malfoy's face.

* * *

I just love the idea of Hermione having an unrequited crush on Professor Lupin. I'm not a fan of fics that actually pair them together, since the age gap makes it rather creepy to me, but in my headcanon she fancied him for a bit and that was why she kept his lycanthropy a secret from even her friends.

GoF is going to be the last short-ish chapter; as of OotP they're each lengthier and I still haven't figured out if I'm dividing them up or posting them as is. If you have a preference (like 2k/chapter vs 4k+/chapter), let me know in a review, yeah? Some people are bothered by inconsistent chapter lengths. I don't care either way, personally. :p


	4. Fifteen

The wait that season was thankfully a short one; she was reunited with the others early on so they could attend some inane Quidditch event. Hermione wasn't terribly excited for the match itself, but the experience as a whole was too great to pass up. It was the sort of event that everyone in the wizarding community would be crawling all over each other to see. The crowds at the World Cup would undoubtedly be boisterous and energetic, and on either side of her at all times would be the two most wonderful people on the planet. It would be an eventful summer.

In the meantime, she shared a room with Ginny Weasley at the Burrow and became better acquainted with the redhead than ever. She knew Ginny had had a crush on Harry for some time, so it made sense when the younger girl asked, "Do you fancy Harry?"

Hermione was lying on her stomach with a novel in front of her, a Muggle mystery she'd snatched from her mum's shelves. "Why on _earth_ would you ask me that?" she muttered, not bothering to look up. By now she'd had quite a bit of practice in telling people that no, there was nothing going on between her and Harry, nor did she want there to be.

Ginny shrugged, kicking her legs as she stared up at the ceiling. "Seemed like a reasonable question to ask," she said. "You're around each other a lot, and you're quite close, aren't you?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Everyone knew the trio _was_ very tight-knit, bonded with something stronger than tempered steel. Hermione's eyes narrowed at the page. "I think _Ronald_ is more likely to swoon over him than I am," she said dully. "He'd probably lick the mud from Harry's Quidditch boots if he asked him to."

Giggling, Ginny said, "No, no, that's Colin Creevey!"

Hermione smiled wryly, glad for the slight change of subject. She traced her finger along the thick sheets, nodding and laughing when necessary as Ginny prattled on about various classmates, her brothers, and _Harry Harry Harry_. One could guess what her topic of choice was. Hermione, for one, found it ridiculous that Ginny insisted _she_ didn't like Harry either. At least Hermione had the grace to be subtle about it.

Not that there was anything to be subtle about.

When the girls from Beauxbatons frolicked into the castle, she told herself the pangs of jealousy in her chest were directed toward how gorgeous those witches were, which had nothing at all to do with the way Ron and Harry's jaws made permanent residences on the floor. It was her naturally competitive nature as a woman, nothing more.

Once Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, a long and bitter row between him and Ron began and refused to cool for some time. Ron, irate over Harry's alleged betrayal, refused to look his former best friend in the eye. Hermione didn't want to abandon either of them, but Harry—well, Harry was always a bit more solitary, and if she failed to stick with him he would be very nearly alone. She couldn't do that to him.

So from the beginning of the feud all the way to the first task, Hermione played mediator when she wasn't scurrying along behind Harry, even through all his grumbling and glaring. One thing was patently clear: He preferred Ron. She remembered the previous year when the boys were both furious with her, how they still looked perfectly happy when they were joking together at the table; as a start contrast, with just Hermione around and Ron out of the picture, Harry seemed miserable. She tried not to let it get to her, difficult though it was.

And she didn't take it personally, of course, when that rubbish journalist Rita Skeeter claimed she and Harry were _involved_ with each other—it was just the principle of the matter that angered her, because nothing about it was even remotely true. She detested accusations of her fancying someone, especially after what had happened in second year.

"_He's not an idiot. You just don't like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch. I've heard he's a really good student—_and _he's a prefect_."

"_You only like him because he's_ handsome."

"_Excuse me, I don't like people just because they're handsome!_"

But she didn't expect Ron to understand why she didn't appreciate his not-so-subtle "Lockhart" comment after that. And anyway, Cedric Diggory just wasn't her type; Quidditch players usually weren't. She wanted to say they never were; a nagging insistence at the back of her mind said that wasn't entirely accurate, however. She didn't always mind boys who played Quidditch.

How funny that she had a visitor of that particular variety just weeks later in the library.

She scrawled across her parchment with fervor, ink staining her fingers like a second skin. She was in such a trance she didn't catch the sound of approaching footsteps. "Hello," said a heavily accented voice from across the table.

It took a moment for Hermione to be content enough with her essay to acknowledge the guest, and when she saw him she was rather unimpressed. Viktor Krum, with his dark hair, dark eyes and awful posture, was peering at her with great interest.

"Yes, hello," she said stiffly, immediately suspicious and looking around for his squealing fan club. The girls in question were, for once, nowhere to be seen. She softened the slightest bit. "Did you want something?" she asked, trying not to sound too rude.

The Quidditch sensation visibly hesitated. "You are alvays here studying, vorking hard. Every day I see you vith more books. None of those other girls"—he referred to his fans with obvious disgust—"are so hard-vorking, or so intelligent."

She flushed, both embarrassed and pleased. "Thank you, but I don't think—" she began to argue.

"They're not pretty like you are, either," he cut in. "Not in the same vay."

Her blush darkened. "I—I don't know what to say. That's very kind of you, Viktor—"

"Vot is your name?"

It was her turn to hesitate. "Hermione," she said. "Hermione Granger."

"Herm-own-ninny," he said as though tasting it, giving her a small smile. Before she could correct him, he asked, "Vould you like to go to the ball vith me, Herm-own-ninny?"

She stared in dumb shock, mouth opening and closing as her brain attempted to form words. After moving past her initial surprise, a grin broke out over her features. "I'd like that very much," she replied, flattered and very self-satisfied.

In truth, she was so happy to be admired by someone that she didn't particularly care if he wasn't her first choice. And maybe she could learn to like Krum, who was turning out to be considerate, thoughtful and conscientious. There was nothing wrong with branching out and trying new things. Maybe Quidditch stars were her taste and she never figured.

Then, as always, there was Ron. The fact that he was just discovering she was indeed a _girl_ was infuriating. She had half a mind to inform him of a location he should shove his wand, but her thoughts were preoccupied with the realization that even Harry never bothered asking to go with her. With a surge of disappointment, she thought that perhaps Ron wasn't the only one who failed to think of her as a member of the female sex.

Regardless, deep down she knew it wasn't Viktor's gaze she was craving when she donned her soft blue dress robes and straightened out her unruly hair. It was certainly a bonus to have all eyes on her as she made her grand entrance, though one green pair made her especially giddy.

Never mind Harry's fit of upset at getting rejected by Cho; never mind the perfectly good man she already had at her arm; something bubbled inside of her when she knew, beyond doubt, that Harry was watching her with a look of sheer amazement.

After all, okay, maybe she fancied him a little.

She was swaying on the dance floor with Not-Harry while her eyes fixed on the exact person whom she finally admitted to herself she _did_ want to be dancing with, even if it were awkward and uncoordinated and hardly any fun. She wanted very much to apologize to Viktor and prance off to ask Parvati Patil to kindly sod off so she could have a moment with the one boy she could picture herself falling wholly in love with.

But she only fancied him a tiny bit.

And Ron, that horrible, tactless, pathetic worm of a human being, had to ruin everything by accusing her of _fraternizing with the enemy_ and spying on Harry for Krum's sake. She fought back tears (both of hurt and fury) as she told him, once and for all, to have the bollocks to ask her next time before somebody else did—as his petty jealousy was clearly the cause of it all—then stormed off.

Her upset was made worse days later when, during an impromptu study session with the Ravenclaws that had deteriorated into a discussion of the ball, Parvati said to her with a smile, "You looked _lovely_, Hermione."

"Gorgeous," agreed Padma. "No one expected you to clean up so nicely!" The other girls nodded and tittered in assent, airing their feelings of surprise at how Hermione had managed to look pretty. Someone speculated aloud that Krum must have seen that in her from the beginning.

Hermione plastered on a fake grin, putting all the effort she could into pretending their backhanded compliments didn't bother her. Yet she was met with the stinging realization that no one had been in awe of how beautiful she really was; rather, they had been shocked at her ability to cover up her usual flaws. And Harry, she thought miserably, had been among their numbers.

In the following weeks, as she managed to put the events of the Yule Ball behind her, she felt as though she were caught in the midst of a torrid affair, having to sneak away to snog Viktor without anyone giving her grief. While she did feel guilty in at least a small way, Viktor proved to be talented at more than just flying around a stadium.

"Viktor," she said when she had the chance at last to come up for air.

"Vot is it, Herm-own-ninny?"

She was still torn at this point as to whether the horrific mangling of her name was endearing or sad. "I was just wondering, well, what exactly is going on between us."

He gave her a blank look. "I vos kissing you," he said at length.

"Yes, I know," she said patiently. "I was there. But where are—I mean—all we really do is snog."

"You vont to stop?" he asked, frowning.

"Yes—no—I—Viktor, I'm your girlfriend, aren't I?" She was beginning to feel exasperated. When he nodded, she said with a touch of annoyance, "Then why don't we ever go anywhere? Why don't we _talk_ about things? Snogging isn't the only thing there is in life!"

There was a long silence. "Herm-own-ninny," he began, "you are the one who never answered my invitation for the summer."

She blushed. "Well—that isn't what—I'm fifteen, Viktor!" she blurted, flustered. "I just want to go on dates, and talk about the things we have in common, and—and snog, yes, but that isn't actually at the top of my priorities, believe it or not!"

He seemed to understand at least a bit, so it was decided that maybe they should give each other some space. At any rate, they could still be friends. Pen pals, maybe. She would like that, having a friend outside of the school who wasn't around her long enough to grow tired of her. It sounded like a nice change. Still she lamented her return to single life.

Of course, it occurred to her later on, somewhere between the beginning and end of the Third Task, that they were all only children with childish problems. There was true danger lurking just out of sight, far more lethal than a wounded heart. And one person landed in the middle of it, as always, because that was his lot in life.

"_Harry, let go of him._"

"_Harry, you can't help him now. It's over. Let go._"

"_He wanted me to bring him back._"

She mourned Cedric, for his sake and Harry's. It was a sorry fate for a young man, not quite out of school, with so much promise—and a sorry fate for the one who had to watch him go. When she looked at Harry she saw a lost little boy who'd had to put on a brave face for too long.

* * *

Bit summarize-y here, but eh, what can ya do. This is mostly a development chapter anyway. :P


	5. Through the Woods

The following summer was the hardest yet, knowing how much Harry would still be grieving. He needed her—needed them—and no one was there to take the edge off the trauma. No one at all.

So instead she was with the Weasleys and Dumbledore and Sirius and everyone else on the _planet_, and no one had told Harry a thing; it was "for his own good," they had said. She and Ron weren't allowed to so much as send him a letter. It filled her with unquellable guilt, particularly when their friend's birthday passed and they hadn't exchanged a word all summer, save for the endless flood of letters on Harry's part and the scars on their fingers from Hedwig's beak.

"But we can't just keep ignoring him!" she cried when Dumbledore told them once again not to reply to Harry's latest (and rather accusatory) letter.

"You _can_, Hermione, and you _will_," said Sirius, fixing her with a stern look from the head of the table. "I don't like it any more than you do. He ought to be here where we can—"

"Sirius." Dumbledore's tone was not unkind, though it had a note of warning to it. He spoke from a chair at the opposite end. "We have discussed the matter at length. It's best that we let Harry stay with his family for the time being."

Everyone in the room jumped as Sirius's fist slammed down on the solid wood. "I'm his family, damn it!" he barked.

Remus, who had returned that afternoon, looked up from his paper and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that seemed so habitual it made Hermione wonder how prone Sirius had been to temper tantrums during their Hogwarts days. "If and when we clear your name, there will be plenty of time for you to make it all up to Harry," he said. "Now, if you want to help ensure his safety, do as Dumbledore says."

"But—"

"I'm not afraid to put a muzzle on you." That shut him up.

It seemed Harry's wellbeing wasn't as certain as Dumbledore had made it out to be, however. August struck with words like "Dementor attack" and "disciplinary hearing," and all at once there was Harry, all in one piece, and when she saw him she flung herself at him and couldn't stop babbling about how happy she was to see him and how glad they were that nothing _too_ horrible had happened, because there he was, still their Harry, still alive. Ron had to tell her to let him breathe.

Harry's face fell quickly. The shouting followed soon after.

"_BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING?_"

It wasn't even her fault. She'd just done as she was told. But in spite of that, she could feel her eyes prickling with tears of shame. Maybe she should have tried harder to convince Dumbledore and the rest of the Order.

The rest of the summer was spent gauging Harry's mood to see whether he should be avoided. Sometimes he seemed too sour to even stand looking at them without snapping, yet on occasion she saw that needy look of his that pleaded with her not to go anywhere. So she stayed.

And then there was Sirius, scampering about like an uncle hitting a midlife crisis. He was good to Harry, she knew, even if he wasn't a particularly good influence. Part of her—quite a large part, too—wondered if the caged animal inside Black was attempting to live vicariously through the danger-magnet that was Harry's life. Certainly she hoped not, though she wouldn't put it past him.

Having to share a room with the younger girl once again, she was reminded that Ginny Weasley was an insatiable yet well-meaning busybody, just like her mother. In the same context as the previous year, with Hermione reading on her own bed and Ginny daydreaming on hers, the latter announced to the ceiling, "I think I should give up on Harry."

Hermione hummed in acknowledgement. "What are you going on about?" she asked, pretending to be distracted by her book, though even she had to admit that the goblin rebellions weren't that interesting.

"He'll never like me," said Ginny. "I'm just the runt of the Weasley family." She frowned, wiggling her toes. "Shame to give up, though, after fancying him for four years now. But I suspect Ron would be relieved, not having to put up with his little sister chasing after his best mate."

Hermione stayed silent, no response coming to mind. Then Ginny went on to say, "Everyone _knows_ there's something going on between you two, Hermione."

The brunette's eyes widened in alarm. She looked up to see Ginny observing her with a smirk. "Ginny, I don't know _what_ you're talking about," Hermione insisted, her face burning.

"Oh, come on, it's so _completely_ obvious!" said Ginny. "You'd have to be blind not to see it, honestly. Don't worry, I'm not upset," she added when Hermione's expression grew to one of absolute horror. "In fact, if I could choose anyone to be with my brother, it would be you." She gave what she must have intended to be a reassuring grin.

At that moment, Hermione realized she had been talking about _Ronald_, and she let out a sigh of relief that the redhead was likely to misinterpret. Figuring it would be easier to make her friend think she liked Ron—ridiculous as that was—she gave an embarrassed smile and giggled shyly, wondering all the while when it was that people stopped asking about her and Harry. Anyway, it couldn't be more difficult to pull off than that charade of fancying Lockhart. The memory made her shudder.

But Ginny never did stop liking The Boy Who Was Livid, even when she started dating Michael Corner (which was at Hermione's insistence, for she managed to convince Ginny that it might be a good idea to see other people, all under the guise of helping her to win Harry over or else forget about him). And Loony—Luna Lovegood seemed to join in the ogling as well for a time; not that it mattered, as Harry talked enough about Cho Chang to have made it clear by now he had eyes for no one else. And of course, all members of the aforementioned love-polygon were crammed together for the defense meetings.

Wonderful.

Harry was ever the reluctant leader to begin with, so Hermione jumped in to get things settled and to make him see how useful, how _indispensable_ she was. Even with his eyes flickering to Cho in the most unsubtle manner every so often, Hermione was determined to remain the faithful, invaluable friend to him that she had always been. Because that was more important than anything, and he wouldn't dare leave them for some tearful floozy of a girl.

And it was all fine; when the praise started to flow in, with each word Harry began to smile a little wider, back to the humble yet content young wizard she used to know. Her heart melted.

And maybe she snapped a bit too much at Luna, and maybe she was too quick to mention to the boys that Ginny had a boyfriend. But she couldn't ignore the unavoidable truth, that Harry was utterly smitten.

"_And talking about Michael and Ginny… what about Cho and you?_"

"_What d'you mean?_"

"_Well, she just couldn't keep her eyes off you, could she?_"

Never in her life had Hermione's face been plastered with a more contrived smile as she watched Harry's expression take a turn from mortification to giddy contentment.

Evidently she wasn't fooling everyone, however. "You look a bit preoccupied," Luna said to her one day in the library.

Hermione, who hadn't heard the airy Ravenclaw float in, blinked several times in surprise. "Do I? Well, I am working on an essay for Umbridge," she explained. "So, yes, I suppose I—"

"Not with that. Something's bothering you." Luna took a seat beside her. Hermione nearly protested, ready to warn her about the stack of books and parchment near her arm, but the blonde gracefully avoided collision with the large pile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Something in the way Luna stared at her told Hermione she already knew what was the matter, but Hermione took a deep breath and explained the situation anyway, in the vaguest terms possible.

Luna listened intently, watching with those big eyes of hers, and said afterward, "I'm sure you'll sort it out." Hermione gave an uncertain nod and Luna traipsed off through the shelves.

She remained steadfast as ever; it was all she could do for the time being, all she knew how to do. She stayed by him when he and George were booted off the Gryffindor team. She helped him through the D.A. meetings. She balanced her prefect duties with visiting Hagrid and defying Umbridge and trying to figure out what was going on with the Ministry and the Order and everything else. Harry was just making it so _difficult_, going off to snog Cho and being so much happier with her than he had been all year so far in the company of Ron and Hermione. And he was a clueless dolt who didn't understand a thing about girls, so Hermione had to spell it out for him. She explained to him in one breath everything about Cho and Cedric and Quidditch and school, anything that could possibly be going on that pretty girl's mind.

There she was, still being the loyal best friend even when that boy was off kissing other girls.

It wasn't as though Hermione had never kissed anyone, granted; there were those times with Viktor, stolen moments between rows against the rest of the world. Somehow, though, she had always figured Harry would wake up one day to realize she was there, just biding her time as she waited for him. He hadn't, and conceivably never would.

Upon realizing this, Hermione decided—notfor the first time—that she would be better off not having feelings for Harry James Potter.

She thought of her other potential prospects in the elusive world of romance. There was always Ron, whom everyone seemed to think she fancied anyway because of some foolish notion that their spats were _lovers' quarrels_. But developing feelings for Ron would be a challenge and she didn't know if she could condition herself into doing it. It was worth a try, considering her other options seemed to be limited to… well, no one. Neville certainly wasn't a winner, nor were the other Gryffindor boys in her year. And she nearly laughed aloud at the idea of pining after either of the Weasley twins.

Of course, she knew it was more than possible for her to simply not fancy anyone. Romance was not the center of the universe and it wasn't going to help her land a successful career and fulfilling life. But it was expected of her—as a girl, as a human being, as a warm-blooded creature—to engage in romantic pursuits. And Hermione was loath to fall short of anyone's expectations, no matter the issue at hand.

She had far too much time to ponder this all as they waited for Mr. Weasley to recover and for Harry to collect himself again. Even Ginny had to yell at him to stop shutting everyone out and being a prick.

But Christmastime showed much improvement. In spite of the incident with the snake (and Hermione's dreadful skiing trip with her parents), life was beginning to look up—even if Harry still insisted on being a prat on occasion.

"_How're you feeling?_"

"_Fine_."

If they snapped at him a bit, it was only because he deserved it, the way he scowled at them and jumped at every chance to contradict their well-intentioned comments. Sometimes Hermione thought she'd be better off trying to reason with a surly five-year-old throwing a tantrum over his birthday gifts (which, if the stories were anything to go by, perfectly described Harry's cousin Dudley even in present tense). This time Ginny was quick to set him straight with her uncanny ability to make people feel they've wronged her, a trait inherited from and cultivated by her mother. And after all their assurance that he wasn't being possessed or turned into a snake or what have you, things calmed down.

But because nothing in their lives ever had the tendency of going well for long, the holiday mood was ruined rather spectacularly when Sirius and Snape—that is, _Professor_ Snape—started to figuratively bare their teeth at one another in an animalistic battle for dominance. Harry related the scene to them in hushed tones. Hermione was just glad he'd finally get something done about those dreams, a sentiment he didn't seem too grateful for under the circumstances.

Their return trip to Hogwarts was scheduled for the following morning. Harry's newfound moodiness meant he was off to bed early, Ron following behind with a look on his face that said all the tension during and after dinner had exhausted him. Ginny, too, was keen to get to sleep. Not feeling tired in the slightest, Hermione slunk off to the drawing room with a hefty book in hand, intent on finishing it.

She had already closed the door behind her when she saw the room already had an occupant. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here," she said to Sirius, who had looked up at the sound of the door clicking shut.

He waved it off. "Not a problem. I'd be a shit host if I chased people out of rooms on principle," he joked halfheartedly. She wondered how much he'd had to drink. "Really, Hermione you can read that dusty old thing in here if you want; I was just leaving." Taking a few steps from the window he'd been facing, he added, "But I really would have thought you'd like it more in the study."

She stared at him, nonplussed. "What study?"

His brow furrowed. "The one—oh! Never told you about it, did I?" She shook her head in the negative and he let out a laugh that sounded genuine. "Suppose I forgot. Hmm. Next floor, far wall, left of that garish tapestry. The door blends right in with the walls, but you can see the knob easy enough. Now if you'll excuse me," he said with a glance toward the clock, "I have an appointment with a bottle of Ogden's. Remember to sleep eventually, and not on or in the books. Never know where those things might've been." With that he made his exit, striding past her with purpose.

She tried not to be too annoyed as she made for the stairs. After all, it wasn't as though he had purposely kept it secret from her, though one would imagine a relatively hidden room would have come up eventually during all that time they'd spent cleaning the grimy house. Letting out a sigh, she ascended to the next landing and headed to the far wall.

Just as promised, beside the tapestry was a round bit of metal that didn't look like it belonged to much of anything. She took hold, gave it a twist, and with a creak of protest the near-invisible door began to open.

The inside of the room was dimly lit. Candlelight danced across the dust-covered shelves, which varied in fullness—and cleanliness. It seemed the study had had only one or two people working on it all these months, perhaps only halfheartedly. It looked only a touch smaller than the Gryffindor common room, she estimated, but didn't smell of a smoky fireplace and Chocolate Frogs. Closing the door more quietly than she had opened it, she darted around the shelves in search of a chair.

Hermione found that this room, however, was also occupied. A figure was slumped over in one of the chairs, surrounded by stacks of books, so she tiptoed over with care, barely suppressing a scream when the person let out an abrupt and terrifying snore. Her grip on her wand unconsciously tightened, loosening only when she realized who it was.

Lupin had always struck her as a tired sort of man, between his transformations and constant yet fruitless search for employment. The way his upper body rested on the ancient-looking desk seemed a dozen kinds of uncomfortable, though someone in his position would be accustomed to settling in any manner of out-of-the-way areas to rest. She felt a pang of sympathy, then inwardly scolded herself; he wouldn't want anyone's pity.

Satisfied that the sleeping man wasn't about to make any more noise, she settled into the other chair and opened her book, at once becoming engrossed.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed (five chapters and three pages) before she heard a quiet stirring. "I have to say, I really prefer his later works. They're less filled with pretension."

Peering over the top of the pages, she saw him rubbing his neck and wincing. "I've already finished those," she said. "Professor McGonagall suggested I read this afterward."

"Oh, _did_ she?" replied Lupin with a tone of amusement. "Well, far be it from me to argue with the wise recommendations of Minerva." He looked toward the window, squinting. "What time is it?"

"I'm not sure. It was half ten when I came in, I think." She smiled self-consciously and closed the book. "Too busy reading to pay attention," she admitted.

"Ah, I know how that goes. But you really ought to get yourself to bed," he told her with a tone of authority she knew was just for show. "Early start tomorrow."

With a sigh she brought up her legs to hug them to her chest. The rough fabric scratched against her feet. "I'm not tired, and even if I were—" She shrugged. "There's a lot to think about."

"There is," he agreed. As he spoke he began to straighten out the small piles around him. "And we're lucky to have been granted the time to think about all of it. That certainly wasn't the case last time."

He meant during the last war. The thought chilled her, knowing how close they were to the brink of real warfare once again. Seeming to read her mind, Lupin gave a kind smile. "The only things you should be concerned about, Hermione, are your schoolwork and Molly's attempts to overfeed you."

"I think she forgets sometimes that I have my own parents," Hermione said fondly. "In her mind I'm one of her more agreeable children."

"Let me tell you a secret," he said, turning to fix her with a grave expression. "As far as Molly is concerned, we're all Weasleys."

She laughed, chuckling into her knees. "And she wants all her children to behave properly and have careers and marriages she approves of, naturally."

"She'll never rest until everyone's fat and wedded."

"With half a dozen children each," she added. Her grin fell. "Lovely."

He watched her for a moment. "I'd like you to do me a favor," he said. She acknowledged him with a glance. "Don't ever let the opinions of others dictate how you view yourself, Hermione. And don't let them infringe on your happiness."

"Prof—erm. Remus?" She felt her face scrunch in confusion.

"You have the potential to do great things for the wizarding world. Greater than Harry could," he added as she opened her mouth to speak. "He's brave and loyal to a fault, just like James before him. In a time of war that's the sort of person you want by your side. But this war won't last forever, and someone like you would be _wasted_ as an Auror. We have to prepare for the aftermath, to catalyze change so the likes of this won't happen again. You could be the person who does that, Hermione. The one who fights for the underdog, stands up for the little people."

"But I'm not—I'm not a leader or anything," she insisted, eyes widening in panic. "I just know a lot of things! Useless knowledge! How will that help anyone, Remus? How can that fix anything?" She flushed. "I can't even get my own friends to agree with establishing house-elf rights!"

Without offering a response, Lupin stood from his chair, stretching as he did so. A loud crack sounded off from his spine and he sighed. "Aging is not altogether the most enjoyable experience," he observed aloud. "Though it is preferable to the alternative." This non sequitur had Hermione thinking of Dumbledore, with his tendency to give cryptic bits of advice in nonsensical ways. Then, out of nowhere, "I can't imagine you were aware, but my mother was Muggle-born."

She hadn't known, in fact. Hermione tended to assume everyone was more or less a pure-blood until proven otherwise; it seemed a safe bet, and her deductive reasoning wasn't _that_ great.

"She read Muggle stories to me," he continued as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "My father would always insist that I hear the magical stories as well, but she said wizards didn't have enough imagination." He laughed, a look of nostalgia passing over his features. "Anyway, Milne was one of her favorites. She loved _Winnie the Pooh_ more than I did. And after the—after my accident, there was one line she'd say to me all the time."

Feeling this was an important moment, Hermione leaned forward. "What was it?"

His voice dropped in volume and he said softly, "_You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think_." He glanced out the window again. "And now you should really get to bed, unless you want to attempt a nap on the Knight Bus."

She nodded, rising from her seat with the novel clutched in both hands. "Right. Well." Before taking a step she hesitated, the floor creaking under her feet. "Thank you." She made for the door, and after getting halfway she turned. "Remus?"

"Hm?"

She grinned. "I thought his later ones were better, too."

"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, smiling at her retreating form.

Back at Hogwarts, just as Hermione had begun to hope that things may return to normal—or some semblance of normality—Valentine's Day made its fast approach and she had to make Harry promise to meet with her in Hogsmeade after his date with Cho. He came to see her and Rita and Luna quite early, looking sour. She tried not to bother him about it, which was more than could be said for other individuals who were present.

"_One more word about Harry's love life and the deal's off and that's a promise._"

And having to tell Harry about how badly he was messing things up with Cho was painful. At the very least, it looked like his ignorant, boyish mind had never thought to tell Cho he would rather spend his time with her than with annoying, grotesque Hermione. It was a small victory in that Cho would now be very suspicious of their friendship, but it was better than nothing.

After Harry and Cho made up, Hermione made a point of leaning closer to him and touching his arm or shoulder whenever the sixth-year was in the vicinity. The animosity in the room was tangible.

And as frightening as it was when Dumbledore left, Hermione couldn't help but feel grateful for how utterly Marietta Edgecombe's folly had decimated whatever sort of relationship Harry and Cho had left. The jealous creature residing in her gut was finally made content.

Then Fred and George left. Hagrid was injured. Grawp came into their lives. Everything was swirling like a whirlwind that Hermione could scarcely follow, and once McGonagall was struck down everything snapped under the sheer weight of the past year.

Before she could allow herself to collapse entirely, she was throwing Umbridge to the wolves (well, the horses) and running through the woods again, side by side with Harry. Trees were closing in on either side while the earth was preparing to swallow them whole.

Trying to save Sirius from an invisible evil was reckless and put all of their lives in danger, but she was Hermione Granger and going along with Harry Potter's every whim was in the job description.

"_Harry?_"

"_What?_"

"_I… I don't think Sirius is here._"

Paying for it dearly was in the fine print.

Dolohov's spell slashed through her chest like the worst kind of pain. Somewhere in the distance she could hear Neville's muffled stutter and Harry's voice, Harry telling her, _begging_ her to wake up, and she tried to open her mouth to tell him that she was trying, she really was. But the final pieces of consciousness she had been holding onto sank away as a shaking hand gripped her wrist, as though desperate to hang onto her pulse.

It felt like death, though under the circumstances she thought it better not to say so. Not with Sirius gone.

* * *

Fact: I actually really like Cho Chang. May or may not write a one-shot about her soon.


	6. Strong Words

The summer would have to be a good one to compensate for everything that had happened, even if they had to deal with the future Mrs. Bill Weasley.

"_Fleur's not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament._"

"_Not you as well!_"

"_I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ''Arry,' do you?_"

The three of them spoke, just as they always did, as though they were adults discussing the fate of the wizarding world. Harry told her and Ron about the prophecy, and it struck Hermione then that they _were_ becoming adults, all of them, before they were even supposed to. Her seventeenth birthday was only months away, but here she was worrying over her O.W.L. results (and despite her ten Outstandings, Harry beat her at Defense Against the Dark Arts; not that anyone was surprised, of course). And the school year came far sooner than she would have liked.

Prof—Snape brought with him flurries of anger each time he entered the room. Every evil that Umbridge had brought with her was beginning to pale in comparison. Between Defense lessons and that ridiculous book Harry insisted on following, things were falling apart. The world was so hectic that she asked Ron to go with her to Slughorn's party, with Harry sitting nearby and seeming to ignore their conversation.

Ron would never make things that easy for her. Ashamed and embarrassed after her display of blatant mistrust with their Quidditch match and the Felix Felicis, she walked into the common room to find him snogging the daylights out of Lavender Brown.

It wasn't that Hermione fancied Ron in the slightest, though it would have been nice for her friends to choose her over their stupid girlfriends one of these days. She'd always prioritized her boys over Viktor, after all. Friends came first, that was the rule. Evidently, however, it was not a rule that others held in high regard. She wished, with every fiber of her being, that she could just hex the pants off of Ronald Weasley and have that action alone rid her of her problems; instead she settled for bombarding him with a flock of birds. It solved nothing, but for a brief moment it was amazingly cathartic.

Here was the selfish truth: Not only had her perfect, wonderful, ideal friend gone off to kiss prettier girls that weren't her, but so had her fallback. Growing up was proving to be a great disappointment for Hermione Granger.

"Are you all right, Hermione?"

She blew her nose discreetly into a conjured tissue, looking up through her puffy eyes to see Harry hovering over her with an expression that was equal parts awkwardness and concern. She'd thought the common room would be empty for the rest of the night, but evidently not.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said hoarsely. "I j-just read a rather sad book, you know, it gets me every time—"

The hug would have felt a lot nicer, a lot more comforting, if she could stop thinking about the way he kept staring at Ginny when he thought no one could see. She cried into his shoulder until his robes were heavy with her tears, trying to ignore the way his clothes smelled like the common room and the greenhouses, and because he was a boy they were probably in need of a wash. She tried, and she failed.

"He's just being a git," he murmured. "He'll come to his senses." Oh, she wished that were true.

If only she didn't have to battle against Ron, Ginny, _and_ the new addition of Harry's obsessive fan club. It was sickening, the way they prattled on about him as though he were some… _object_. They were worse than men in that respect.

"_As I doubt whether even the _Half-Blood Prince _could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomorrow night, they're getting desperate._"

"_There isn't anyone I want to invite._"

She was torn between the disappointment that he clearly didn't want to ask _her_ and the regretful knowledge that he was acting as though he didn't want to invite Ginevra Weasley.

After a disastrous Transfiguration lesson that left her in tears, Hermione found herself comforted once again by Luna. Luna, who would be going with Harry to Slughorn's party as friends, because he was too afraid to ask the girl he wanted to go with and too dumb to see the one right in front of him. Luna, who listened as she bawled about her problems.

"Cormac," she called when she spotted the seventh-year in the corridor. McLaggen's wiry frame halted and turned in her direction, his eyes expressing a great deal of confusion as she trotted over to him.

"Yeah, Granger?" he asked, a bit suspiciously.

She forced a bright smile onto her face. "I was thinking about who to invite to Slughorn's party," she said, "and, well, let's be honest—you were the obvious choice." By which she meant, naturally, that he was someone physically attractive whom Ron despised. Maybe that would make the redhead think twice about abandoning her to flounce about with Lavender.

The massive balloon that was Cormac's ego visibly swelled. "Glad you thought so," he said. She half expected him to start preening his tail feathers.

"Yes, well." She cleared her throat in an attempt to force down the irritation that was bubbling to the surface. "How about it, then?" she asked, biting her lip in a way she hoped was coy.

He gave her the once-over and nodded in vague approval. A vomit-worthy grin of self-assuredness spread across his lips. "All right, see you there."

If Ron wanted to be a twat, fine; two could play at that game. Harry wouldn't care about what she did with Cormac either way, since he was so wrapped up in every other little thing that was going on. She would be surprised if he even gave it a second thought.

When McLaggen all but mauled her under the mistletoe, Hermione wondered if perhaps she should have invited Zacharias Smith instead. Really, did that great prat think she would _snog_ him? Good-looking or not, she would rather kiss _Peeves_. At least then there would be no slime to wipe off afterward.

Her row with Ron was unending. Even after the holidays were over, during Apparition lessons and every meal, there was a continued stubbornness on the part of either party, a complete refusal to step up and apologize. Not that she felt she had anything to apologize for, since he was the one being cruel and petty.

It was lucky, in hindsight, that Ron was the one who swallowed Romilda Vane's crafty love potion. If Harry had been subjected to that girl's underhanded tactics, she would have been promptly introduced to Hermione's fist. Unlucky, though, about the poison.

But the first thing Ron said, grumbling in his sleep, was her name.

She'd known for ages now that he fancied her. It occurred to her now, though, that she was being incredibly unfair to him; it wasn't his fault, after all, that Harry wasn't positively infatuated with her. Nor was it his fault that he himself was. She was mistreating him solely because of her own bitterness, and though they were both guilty of immaturity she knew it had to stop somewhere. As the old adage said, two wrongs don't make a right.

"Ron," she began carefully during one of her visits to the hospital wing, "do you think we could… talk about something?"

Ron, who was looking rather chuffed despite being bedridden, gave her a curious look. Ever since their unspoken truce, something had changed about their friendship, however subtly. There was a tense sort of discomfort in the air, even when they were laughing and joking around. "Sure," he said. His eyes narrowed and he frowned. "What's wrong?"

He must have spotted the worry edging its way over her features. She sniffed, fidgeting in her seat.

"Nothing's… _wrong_, really," she said slowly. "I just wanted to tell you—"

What _did_ she want to tell him? There were so many things she wished they could talk about, and if he weren't so visibly twitterpated with her then she could tell him about everything that had been going on for the past two years. But none of that could escape the confines of her brain. No one on the planet knew about her feelings for Harry, and it seemed easier that way.

Ron was watching her expectantly.

"I just wanted to tell you… how glad I am that we're friends again," she finished quietly. It was a safe truth, and both of them burst out in ridiculous grins, relieved at how things had returned to normal once more.

Things would be perfect, if only Harry stopped following Ginny with his eyes and glaring so obviously at Dean Thomas. But that was wishful thinking on Hermione's part.

"_What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?_"

"_Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you._"

"_It must've looked funny._"

"_It didn't look funny at all! It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!_"

"_Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it. Or are they still together?_"

"_Yes, they are—but why are you so interested?_"

Hermione would have been fine with it—or a bit more fine, at least—if he would at least admit to his obsession with the youngest Weasley, but he adamantly avoided the subject. It was frustrating pretending to be blind to his crush in order to fish information out of him. And maybe if Hermione were a better friend she would have a quiet talk with him about it, but if she had learned anything so far that year it was that she wasn't an especially good friend, not anymore.

At the very least, Ron was growing fonder of Luna. Hermione wondered if the two of them wouldn't make a nice pair; Luna certainly seemed capable of dealing with a Weasley, and maybe one of the boys could handle her eccentricity. The thought became a more and more likely thing as Ron and Lavender grew distant, a fact that made Hermione smirk triumphantly. It was good to see her friend faced with the consequences of his rather poor decision-making.

For the time being, she chose to simply ignore any implications about her and Ron, but cheered in silence as his relationship with Lavender fell even more irreparably apart.

One thing Hermione couldn't help but be a little bitter about was the sheer frequency with which Harry talked about Draco Malfoy and whatever it was that he was doing. The thought made her scowl. He was more likely to fall in love with _Draco_ than he was with her at this rate. She recalled a brief moment in their second year when she thought Malfoy might be sort of cute, something that now gave her the urge to vomit. He _was_ shaping up to be quite handsome, though everything else about him was filthy.

The little snake was seen on his own now more often than not. He skulked down corridors, a slight hunch in his posture as though he carried a great secret with him. She had to admit it _was_ a bit suspicious, but nothing worth getting too worked up over like Harry was.

"It's a shame that Malfoy is such a rotten bastard," Parvati said one night in the dormitory, trying in vain to lure Crookshanks away from his place on her homework. The cat glared every time she approached.

"What, you don't think he's—?" Hermione shuddered. She stepped over to Parvati's bedside to snag her pet and chastise him lightly.

"Well, personality aside, he's kind of sexy, isn't he?" said Parvati.

"I can't put his personality aside because it's _vile_," Hermione argued, wincing.

"Don't listen to her, Par," Lavender called from the farthest bed. "The only guys Hermione's interested in are other people's boyfriends."

Hermione's nostrils flared. "_Excuse_ me?"

"Care to tell the class what you did to seduce my Won-Won and make him break up with me?" Lavender taunted. "And don't try to act innocent, either. The boys may fall for it, but I won't."

"What are you even talking about?" Hermione gritted out. It should be noted that it took quite a lot of self-control at that moment not to cross the room and punch Lavender right in the mouth. She felt she deserved a medal of some sort for it.

"Playing dumb really doesn't suit you, _Granger_."

"I don't think this—" Parvati began with a nervous look about her. Lavender cut her off, saying, "Someone needs to tell her, Parvati. Maybe she doesn't know about what everyone's been saying."

"And what have they been saying, _Lavender_?" demanded Hermione.

Before now the other girl had been lying on her back, gaze focused upward. As she turned to sit up she fixed her eyes directly on Hermione. "That you're a two-timing slut," she said slowly and with malice.

It was a slap in the face. Hermione refused to cry, knowing that was what Lavender wanted. Instead she lifted her chin in defiance. "If that's what the world has to say about me, I'd hate to hear what they've got on you." As if to emphasize her point, Crookshanks hissed.

Though Lavender seemed to ignore her jab at the time, later Hermione heard the girl asking her friend in anxious tones what people were saying behind her back. The Muggle-born had a silent laugh to herself.

Meanwhile, in the realm outside of Hermione's personal drama, Harry was off stealing memories and talking to Dumbledore about Horcruxes and the like. To bring his attention back to the real world, Hermione regrettably informed him that Ginny and Dean had broken up. It was obvious he was attempting not to look too excited at the prospect. Her stomach turned unpleasantly, so she concentrated instead on being happy for everyone that Ron was no longer dating that complete cow of a witch.

She caught Harry staring at the redheaded girl and shot him a knowing look that didn't at all reflect her hurt or disappointment.

He landed himself in a good deal of trouble for hexing Malfoy, with a curse he shouldn't have used from a book he shouldn't have owned. Hermione was disappointed with him again, now for entirely unselfish reasons.

"_Give it a rest, Hermione! By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse, you should be glad Harry had something good up his sleeve!_"

"_Well, of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed! But you can't call that Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it's landed him! And I'd have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match—_"

"_Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch, you'll only embarrass yourself._"

That sneer on Ginny's face, coupled with Harry's ecstatic expression, nearly sent Hermione over the edge. She was contemplating using Sectumsempra herself to really give the Weasley brat something to scowl about, but she reigned in her temper quickly and turned to sulk instead. Besides, Ginny was right: Hermione knew nothing about Quidditch, and boys who played it still weren't her type. Definitely not. She could do better, anyway.

She watched as Harry stared at the redhead like a lovestruck fool. Yes, she thought with disdain, she could do much better.

Yet that Saturday, it was with great difficulty that she plastered a glowing smile onto her face when Quidditch-playing Harry kissed the girl he was so devoted to, wishing she hadn't had so much practice pretending to be happy for other people.

Now she was rowing with Harry over the Half-Blood Prince nonsense again, because it made more sense to be angry with him than to take it out on Ron again. Harry was the guilty one; Harry would be the one to pay. They could assume all they wanted that she was upset over him besting her in Potions class.

But then…

Her memory was a flashbulb on rapid fire. Harry and Dumbledore searching for Horcruxes, the Dark Mark floating over the castle, Snape standing, victorious, as their headmaster's body plummeted—

No.

No, no, no.

_No_.

Everything in the world reeked of coldness and unspoken things. Air tasted of ash, of blood and bodies and fear. It was Ginny who led Harry to the hospital wing, who pulled him away from everything, as the rest of them gaped in shock and disbelief. Hermione could only stare, horrified, for everything had started down a spiral of chaos with those two words: _Dumbledore's dead_.

It was then that she saw Lupin break down, causing something in Hermione's already aching heart to snap. He was just a poor, wretched man whose friends were all dead, and the one who had believed in him, who had taken him in and shown faith, his father—_everyone's_ father—was sprawled out, lifeless, on the school grounds.

And she and Luna had let the murderer walk along without any trouble.

Remus insisted it wasn't their fault. She wanted to believe him, to listen to that wise and grown-up advice he was always trying to give, because Remus Lupin always knew the right thing to say, the words people needed to hear. But why should he comfort her when there was so much blood on her hands?

After that, staring morosely out windows had become a pastime of Hermione's. She did it while Fleur fussed with Bill's pillows and while Ginny gave Harry a tender kiss. When the girl left, Hermione told Harry and Ron all about her discovery of Snape's lineage, and the three of them brooded in unison.

But Hermione meant what she said—evil _was_ a strong word.

At the funeral she let herself cry into Ron; Ron, who was good and kind and always there for her; Ron, who maybe loved her for reasons she couldn't pretend to understand. She was just a bossy, selfish, argumentative girl and she was tired of people dying. She sobbed into his shoulder while Harry was off breaking Ginny's heart, knowing that they could never pretend to be young again. They weren't returning to the hallowed walls of Hogwarts, and they had to be ready to run and kill and maim, or else die in the attempt.

It would be their final and their greatest adventure, and just as it was in the beginning, with the troll and the Stone and all the rest of their escapades when they hid in the bodies of children, it would be just the three of them.

* * *

I've always wondered how the dynamic changed in the girls' dormitory with all the Hermione/Ron/Lavender business. With more time I would've gone even more in depth with it, but alas, working on this story any more would've driven me crazy.

Anyway, sorry the update took so long! I kind of, erm, forgot. Whoops.


	7. Bread and Honey

"Mum," she called from her room, looking through yet another box of miscellaneous items. "Could you help me with something?"

Mrs. Granger appeared in the doorway within moments. "Of course, dear, what is it?"

Hermione looked up from her busywork. She caught her mother's eye with a pang, seeing the brown irises so much like her own and trying to commit every detail of that face to memory.

"I was wondering," she said, looking away, "if you've seen that beaded bag—the one I got from the little shop in Bristol last year?"

The woman hummed in thought. "No, can't say I have, Hermione," she said, then asked, "Why don't you use your magic to look for it? There's a spell for that, isn't there?"

How could she explain to her mother that she wanted, maybe for the last time, to do things the hard way, and not simply allow her magic to get the job done for her? This was her last day of Muggle life; her final opportunity to be really and truly ordinary. She wondered briefly how different things would have been if magic didn't exist and she'd met all the witches and wizards as Muggles, with no death, war or prejudice between them. She wondered if she and Harry would even be friends if not for their causes to save each other's lives every other month. There were no trolls in the Muggle world, only lesser monsters called humans.

But there was no use wondering. She was leaving for the Burrow in the morning, perhaps never to see her parents again. That was when her mortality dawned on her.

"Right. Thanks anyway, Mum," she murmured, blinking away tears. She decided privately that Wendell and Monica Wilkins would be very happy in Australia. Mum loved sunshine.

"_If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives—!_"

"—_because it's the first time for all of us._"

"_This is different, pretending to be me—_"

"_Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry. Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever._"

But Hermione didn't mind it terribly.

She felt odd being in a body other than her own again, but better Harry than a cat. She was trying very hard, however, to concentrate on things other than the sensation of feeling through his nerves and being aware of his every extremity; it was partly for the sake of his modesty and partly to spare her from her own embarrassment. It would be prudent not to mention this incident again, she knew.

Two-and-a-half tragedies later—the half being George's ear—there was a wedding to prepare for. Perhaps this would make up for the marriage she missed, that of Lupin and Tonks (now Lupin and Lupin, she would have to remind herself). Much as Hermione wanted to think of it as a friend growing up and growing apart from them, this was not the same at all. Remus had done his growing up long before she and her friends were born, before he was even out of school himself, and now that they were doing the same he was no longer a necessary component in their lives. This hurt her in much the same way as having to let go of her parents did, the fondness and familial love stabbing her repeatedly in the chest.

It was difficult to keep the resolve in her voice as she told them about her sacrifice—but then, what _hadn't_ been difficult those past few years? And though her loss was small, insignificant compared to what Harry would face, his eyes sparkled in that way that they always did when someone did something unexpectedly kind for him. But it wasn't as though she and Ron had a choice in the matter: nothing in the world, magical or Muggle, could keep them from doing their part in this, his moment of need.

Because of the unbreakable bonds of their friendship, she kept quiet when she heard of _Ginny's_ birthday present to him. It was none of her business, and she preferred to keep it that way. Besides, Ginny would not be joining them on their mission. She was not and had never been a part of this.

The day progressed, and while Minister's visit was predictable enough, his gifts were not.

_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

_I open at the close_.

This was Dumbledore's last challenge, and she was prepared to rise to the occasion.

She dressed nicely for the wedding, knowing how well soft colors suited her and daring to hope that Harry might notice. He had taken some Polyjuice anyway and was looking distinctly like a Weasley, so he wasn't outwardly the dark-haired and bespectacled boy she adored, but he would do. Yet just like the last time she bothered to dress herself up, she faced the disappointment of not being able to dance with him, and maybe she never would. Maybe it was too much to ask of him.

But Krum was there. Polite, complimentary, endearing Viktor Krum was always there to dance with her in her floaty robes—but in the confusion of everything that was life, Ron got there first.

"You look nice," he mumbled awkwardly as they situated themselves.

A faint blush rose to Hermione's cheeks, but she was pleased nonetheless. "Thank you, Ronald." She bit back a wince as he stumbled over her foot, though when he apologized she insisted she hardly felt a thing, and they continued to turn slowly on the spot.

Ron's hands were warm and comfortable, if not large. Hers was being engulfed by his too-wide palm and too-long fingers. It occurred to her that one of the reasons why it would never work between them was that Ron had everything in the wrong quantities. Maybe not the _wrong_ quantities, she corrected, just not the sort she was interested in.

"Hermione."

She looked up, meeting his gaze questioningly. They were close enough that she could see his every freckle. Everything she noticed about him made her wish more and more that she didn't stubbornly love someone who could never love her back; that she could care for this ginger boy as he cared for her.

He cleared his throat. "I was, erm—I was thinking, you know, about—about the three of us," he said with some difficulty. She shot him an 'is this really the time' kind of look, but he was persistent. He did, however, lower his voice. "I mean, with you and Harry and me. Will things get… weird, d'you think?"

"Um." She chewed on her lip, her brow furrowing. "I don't quite understand what you mean," she said slowly. "It hasn't been weird before, has it? Why would anything be different now?"

But she knew what he meant. He didn't seem to want to vocalize it; that would mean admitting what he had been too afraid to say since their fourth year. She understood exactly how it felt, because it was the same hesitance she experienced when it came to talking with Harry, or about Harry, or near Harry. Even the thought of it filled her with uncertainty and self-consciousness. She sincerely hoped that her feelings toward their friend were not quite as apparent as Ron's toward her.

"Well, just going to be us, isn't it?" He shrugged and she felt his shoulder tense as he did so. "Three's—not exactly an even number, and… erm…"

"Listen, Ron," she said firmly. He looked at her, red-eared. "Everything will be fine. You and Harry—you two are like brothers to me. We're practically family, and nothing will get in the way of that. All right?" Resisting the urge to cringe at what was in part a blatant lie, she gave him a small smile, one that he returned with a hesitant look. Evidently he didn't like the idea of them all being _family_ any more than she did. She could practically hear him grumble, _I've got plenty of family_. It almost brought a true smile to her face. But the peace wasn't a lasting one—they never were.

"_They are coming._"

As far as escape routes went, Tottenham Court Road seemed to be a safe choice, at least for the time being. She couldn't help but beam at their admiration for the charm she put on the bag, feeling wonderfully necessary, _irreplaceable_ for the first time in a long while. It was as if she'd given bread and honey to starving children, the way their gratitude radiated from their eyes. And nestled underneath all the appreciation, she felt it: love, of the most wonderful and fulfilling variation.

Then they ran for their lives, as always.

Grimmauld Place was the next destination, albeit a hazardous one. It was the home of a dead man whose presence had never quite left. Kreacher lurked like a shadow, but he was _their_ shadow, so Harry sent him off to tarry under someone else's feet. There was much silence. The next arrival broke all of it.

And in return, Harry broke his spirit.

"_My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it—how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!_"

"_Remus! Don't say that—how could any child be ashamed of you?_"

"_Oh, I don't know, Hermione. I'd be pretty ashamed of him_."

That was wrong. She knew it; he knew it; Ron knew it; the Muggles next door and down the street probably knew it as well. Harry was right to refuse the man's help, but Remus, who had only ever cared for them all, looked after them like they were his own, deserved better than this. Yet in his wake, the only one left to comfort was Harry, who was already sick with regret.

He refused to let her sympathetic hand touch him. Harry was strong, she knew, and stood by his convictions (particularly the ones regarding platinum-haired Slytherins). Along with Ron, she tried to sway him, but he kept to what he said, even as his face fell and was flooded with apologetic desperation. He stood by his beliefs, perhaps because they were often all he could rely on. They were his anchor, the assurance he could never find anywhere else. And when someone remained unloved for ten years, she supposed something like that was natural. Yet she felt a clenching pain once again for that man she had once admired foolishly before growing to love him as a dear friend, even a mentor. She hoped Remus would be all right, and that Harry would as well.

They made it in and out of the Ministry in one piece in their search for the next Horcrux. Hermione thanked every deity she knew of for Polyjuice, which seemed determined not to fail her again as it did when she was thirteen. But back in the tent, a swell of fury with ginger hair was unleashed. The British rain fell heavy as Mother Earth warned them of what would ensue. Jealousy and betrayal rose, as did the feeling of nausea in her throat.

Everyone was angry. Everyone but Hermione, who could only cry and feebly try to fix things with a quick shield that hurt more than it helped, but Harry's dark expression hurt worse. When was the last time he had turned this cruel of a look on her? Ah—fifth year, when they left him alone and unwanted. And now he blamed her again for the feeling of abandonment that must have risen in his gut like putrid bile. But it wasn't her fault, because she wanted their friend back too, and she wanted _him_ back, and for everything to just be… normal again. But normalcy was quite a pretty and fanciful word, and she didn't dare wish for it. It wasn't hers to yearn for.

Music played; lifeless music. Every moment now felt like more time to sulk, to hope their friend was miraculously still alive—to wish the one there with her would speak to her again. She sought out to do that. But as always, Harry was loath to let her do what she wanted.

So they danced.

First he took that godforsaken Horcrux off from around her neck. She felt thirty pounds lighter but only marginally happier. And it wasn't dancing at first, more like moving their limbs in strange motions that were not the least bit poetic. It was silly and awkward, filled with a lack of coordination and moderate inability to follow a rhythm. She followed his lead hesitantly at first, confused by his antics and saddened enough to go along without argument. But his hands were warm and his eyes were soft. It was the look she had been waiting to see again, the _I'm so lucky to still have you here_ look that brought a smile back to her face. It was also a look, she could see, that was filled with a frightening need for her to tell him that everything would be okay, with or without Ron. But she couldn't; she didn't really think it would be.

She realized what else he was trying to do. He wanted to show her that they could be there for each other—Harry and Hermione, the best of friends. That was a lie. Ron was his best friend, his _favorite_, and he would never look at her the same way he looked at Ginny, even if Ginny had never swayed and rested her head on his shoulder like this. The smile fell from her face more easily than it should have, and as the music faded away, so did she.

_We're older now, the light is dim  
And you are only just beginning…_

* * *

Part one of the DH era, since all together it takes up about a third of the entire fic. Ack.


	8. Filthy Mudblood

And then Hermione returned to her pastime of bollixing everything up.

_Oh no Harry please it wasn't my fault_—

Yet it was. She had broken his wand.

"_It was an accident. We'll—we'll find a way to repair it_."

Neither of them believed that. She saw how quickly he scrambled away, not looking at her as he took her own wand in hand and left to keep watch. It felt like Hermione did nothing but cry and feel rotten, but it couldn't be helped. All she could do was offer tea and more of her endless information, because she was Hermione and that was simply what she did, all she was good for. And he forgave her, because he was Harry and that was simply what _he_ did. Even if the picture of his late idol that dwelled in his mind was about to burn and fester. Maybe she could help with this one.

"_He loved you. I know he loved you_."

It was a small consolation when she felt Harry relax as she gently touched his hair. And for the moment, that would have to do.

And finally, finally, _finally_, Ron came back and she gave him abuse equivalent to the pain and worry he had caused her in his absence (that stupid prat). And while the boys never told her about what the Horcrux had shown Ron, she overheard them talking about it—it was her turn for guard duty, but she was going to leave her post for a short minute to use the toilet—and was curious to know just what had been omitted in Harry's retelling of the events.

"Sorry about that," Ron spoke up suddenly. "I mean, for taking so long to off the thing. Just couldn't stop watching it. Part of me felt like I sort of deserved to sit through that, d'you know what I mean?"

She heard no response from Harry, so she assumed he nodded. One of the chairs creaked, as they tended to whenever someone leaned far enough to tilt them backward. "And do you believe me when I say it's not like that with me and her?"

At that, her listening was no longer based on sheer curiosity. Originally she had simply not wanted to interrupt them; now, however, it was apparent that this was something worth overhearing. She hoped the sudden quickening of her heart or of her breathing wasn't audible.

"Yeah," said Ron, sounding sheepish. "If you say that's how she feels—"

"It is," Harry assured. "Of course it is, you git. Just like brother and sister. That's how it's always been, Ron."

None of this was surprising to her, of course. She could only feel slightly disappointed, having her worries confirmed with perfect certainty. He had always thought of her as a sister. She wished the words she had spoken to Ron at the wedding were true—_you two are like brothers to me. We're practically family_. It would make everything so much easier. Things never came easily, though, least of all to them, so maybe that was too much to ask.

After a pause, though, Harry began speaking again, slowly and with much hesitation. "You know, Ron, I've felt for a while now like I'm the odd one out here. I know the both of you came along so you could help me, and that's how it's been since first year, but you've had each other this whole time. It makes me wish—"

"What, that you had Ginny here?" Ron's suggestion sounded halfway between amusement and irritation. Hermione wondered if maybe he was faking both emotions to ease the tension. It was hard not to be concerned when Harry acted like this. She and Ron had spoken before about their friend's insecurities, never quite knowing what they should do about it.

"No," he said quickly. "That's actually my point, Ron—it makes me wish I had someone I could be that close to. And… it isn't Ginny. It never was."

The whole world chose that very moment to go silent and perfectly still. Hermione's lungs ceased to require air; that was how it felt, at least, since she had stopped breathing entirely and didn't know if she ever would again. The hope she had lost only moments before sprung up again in a new way, knowing that even if he never loved her, he wouldn't love Ginny Weasley, either. _Wonderful_.

Ron, of course, took the opportunity to color his voice with unease. "Why's that, then?"

"Your sister just tries too hard. She told me she knows what it feels like, having V—You-Know-Who in my head, but that's not what matters to me. I don't need her to… empathize with me, or _imitate_ me." He sighed. "I think the last thing the world needs is another one of me walking around."

"Imagine if I found a girl who was just like me," Ron said after a thoughtful pause. "She'd be like—blimey, she'd be a bit like Lavender, wouldn't she?"

Whatever Harry must have been expecting, that evidently was not it. Hermione heard him burst into surprised laughter, struggling to manage a "Won-Won" between guffaws. She'd never told them about the incident with Lavender, so no one had a single idea of the extent to which Ron was and always had been too good for that vindictive wench. She let out a soft sigh (for once not out of frustration) and made her presence known as if she had just made her way into the tent, asking what they were laughing about.

The Lovegood house took all the laughter out of them. And in place of the laughter came talk of the Hallows.

They weren't real. Harry just suffered from a strong bout of wishful thinking. It was a matter on which she and Ron agreed, and now Harry was isolating himself from them. Hallows, Hallows, _Hallows_.

"_Obsession? We're not the ones with an obsession, Harry! We're the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!_"

For the longest time it had been Harry and Ron versus Hermione. Since fifth year it had become Harry versus Ron and Hermione with increasing frequency, and now it was at its peak. Harry was defensive; Ron was wary; Hermione wanted it to just _stop_ so they could do what they set out to do in the first place. A momentary truce was reached, and soon they were listening to _Potterwatch_, when Harry slipped up and said V—the forbidden word, the taboo, and then… they were Snatched.

"_Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?_"

"_I… maybe… yeah_."

"_But then, that's the Weasley boy! It's them, Potter's friends—Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name—?_"

"_Yeah. It could be_."

She didn't understand. What was Malfoy so afraid of? Normally she would expect him to sell them out at a moment's notice. But he faced away from them, speaking with a tone of poorly-concealed fright and hesitation, a worrying child. She wondered if maybe…

No. Was it really possible they had misjudged him all along? Was there a chance that he didn't want to be a part of this any more than they did, that he had only let the Death Eaters into the castle last spring because his life—his family, even—was at stake?

She remembered the obnoxious little hellion Malfoy had once been, his face forever deformed from the sneer that crossed it. She recalled his shrewd gazes and slick hair, and the way his face would redden from his cheekbone to cheekbone and across his pointed nose when they made him _especially_ angry. But there was little color in him now, and his features were bordering on gaunt. He had the look of someone who had seen terrible things. She had seen his grey eyes as he looked at them, so full of terror and regret, and she knew: Draco Malfoy was not evil. Not good, no, but as she had once said, evil was a strong word.

Sadly for them, it was not Draco who would decide their fate.

_LYING, FILTHY MUDBLOOD_. Someone screamed, over and over, until Hermione realized she was the one doing it. The world disappeared as the searing pain of Unforgivable magic soared through her veins like a drug meant to kill. Voices around her were murmuring and plotting and questioning, asking her about all manner of things, and between screams she answered, but the answers were never good enough. She screamed till her voice nearly came free from her throat and threatened to perpetuate for eternity, bouncing from wall to wall. All she could think was that she couldn't die now, because she was afraid, so afraid, and she had to stay with Harry until—until—

And she did, at a price. A little almost-person lay dead in the sand: a free elf. He had looked so small. Hedwig must have looked quite small in death as well, but this time there was someone for them to bury.

There was a respect, Hermione noted, in which Harry and You-Know-Who were similar yet complete opposites: Riddle murdered to split his soul, and each death Harry witnessed seemed to fragment his heart into ever tinier shards. She wondered if there would be any part of it left in the end, whatever end that was. No—she was determined to make sure his ending wasn't absolute, even if there was a traitorous thought in her head telling her he was soon to die. But then, Trelawney _had_ said her Inner Eye was useless.

The others they had rescued were safe now, so it was time for the dragons again, because the Golden Trio had to face them in some form or another every three years—from Norberta to the mother Horntail and now this blind old thing—and really, riding one seemed preferable to being consumed by it.

"_Get under the cloak, Hermione, I want to stick together this time_."

This was the very end of the final adventure. Of course he wanted to stay together, after everything they had gone through—everything they still would. With a turn and a _crack_, they were that much closer to the halls they had long since abandoned, where they had saved the day time and time again as children. When Neville greeted them, Hermione was finally ready to brace herself for the conclusion, whatever it may be.

All the Hogwarts students that came to greet them, whether past or present, watched with a grim sort of anticipation once the excitement died down. The familiar faces filled her with a great wave of relief. Her eyes met, just for a moment, with Lavender Brown, who gave a short nod that Hermione took to mean she was sorry.

"_No, Luna will take Harry, won't you, Luna?_"

For the first time, Hermione saw that _she_ wasn't the green-eyed monster this entire time; the snarl that erupted from Ginny's throat was protective and ferocious, and not without some vulnerability. With a feeling of triumph, Hermione could tell that Ginny must have had an inkling of how loose her hold on that boy had finally become. If the situation weren't so bleak, she may have smiled.

When Harry ventured off, Ron turned to her and said, with an odd look, "Hey—fancy heading to the Chamber of Secrets?"

She gaped at him dumbly. "Ron, why on earth would we—"

"I had this thought, see," he began. "The sword had basilisk venom inside it, and that's why it could destroy Horcruxes, right? Well, _where can we find a basilisk, Hermione?_"

If she had ever doubted Ron Weasley's intelligence—and who was she kidding, she did on a daily basis—now was the moment to take it all back. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Ronald, that is… _bloody_ brilliant."

She was almost bursting with pride. Harry would be, too, if he were there to witness it. When they regaled the story to him—oh, if only he could have heard Ron's hissing—the Boy Who Lived was beside himself with amazement. And as though he somehow figured he had yet to sufficiently surprise them for the night:

"_The house-elves, they'll all be down in the kitchen, won't they?_"

"_You mean we ought to get them fighting?_"

"_No, I mean we should tell them to get out. We don't want any more Dobbies, do we? We can't order them to die for us_—"

If she were anyone but Hermione, she could absolutely kiss him. And were it not for the drastically wrong impression it would give off, she might just do it anyway. Instead, she tossed the bundle of lethal fangs haphazardly to the ground, ran at him and flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. She had run out of moments to keep pretending, as there was no more room in this universe for a world where she was presumed to love him.

"Thank you," she whispered with fierce gratitude. Pulling away from a red-eared Ron—though not before pressing a kiss to his cheek—she turned to their other friend, who had been less-than-patiently ignoring the scene before him, and said, "Right. Harry, let's find that diadem."

He nodded. "Pick up the fangs and we'll go."

Meanwhile, Malfoy's cronies—who seemed to insist on no longer being cronies—were as stupid as ever.

"_It's that Mudblood!_ Avada Kedavra!"

To think they'd have to deal with Fiendfyre, of all ungodly things. But the boy with the maybe-right hair was safe and with them now. It had been a long while since any of them had been really and truly hurt by Draco Malfoy, she knew, and something about that fact warmed her soul. She thought of that sniveling boy she'd punched square in the face when she was fourteen, and how he was not unlike the man—for they were adults now, strange as it was—who had lacked the courage and malevolence to sell them out to his aunt. For a small moment, Hermione smiled.

Life slowed down. Death didn't. A flash of color and ash, and eight worlds fell apart when an orange light was revealed in the wreckage. She felt Harry's hand tightly gripping hers, and somewhere in the back of her mind she registered a terrifyingly broken yell.

"_No—no—no! No! Fred! No!_"

Fred. When had it all become so personal? When did everyone in their lives start _dying_? It looked as though Death had taken a personal vendetta against the Golden Trio, and perhaps for good reason after all their defiance against him. But it still wasn't fair. It never would be, she supposed.

"_Come on, Harry! Patronuses, Harry, come on!_"

"_HARRY, COME ON!_"

Something happy—what was happy? So many were dead. She could see it in Harry's eyes. There was little to be happy about, with all the destruction and horror that lay around them, with the promise of more on the way. But thank Merlin for Luna Lovegood and her uncanny ability to defy all odds.

And even though Hermione had no reason to, even though it might have been wrong, she looked at the lifeless body of Severus Snape and let a tear roll down her cheek. He had never shown a single modicum of kindness to her, nor had he appreciated her brilliance or defended her from his pupils—or himself. But she felt, deep down, as though this man was once someone to be pitied. Shooting a final glance in her former professor's direction, she then made a hasty exit.

They had one hour.

* * *

The end of the fic is drawing closer...


	9. Trouble

The Weasleys were deep in mourning, all gathered around the body of the man who had died with laughter on his face, the same as Harry's godfather. And after seeing a pair of still bodies across the room, Hermione's own grief spilled over.

Remus was frighteningly peaceful in death, the worry gone from his face. Perhaps by coincidence, one of his hands brushed against his wife's, the two of them forever reaching out to each other and barely touching. A swell of sickness rose within her, the same vile feeling that had washed over her being when Dumbledore was killed, yet more acute and with a lasting ache. The memory of the old wizard's death reminded her of the first instance where she ever saw the courageous, inspiring, good-natured and intelligent man before her in a vulnerable state, and it got her going all over again. And somehow, she knew the pounding of hurried footsteps leaving the room belonged to a black-haired boy who had lost yet another of his surrogate fathers.

But he wasn't alone. She, too, had a raw and cavernous wound in her now. Brushing debris from the fallen man's jacket with care, she heaved herself to her feet once more and stumbled back to Ron.

Time ticked away, and they waited for Harry to reappear so they could form a plan. Just the snake was left, they were so close—

But Harry only came back cold in Hagrid's arms.

The world stopped turning, ground to a halt under her feet. Existence itself ceased. She didn't care anymore that he never knew her true feelings, or that he likely never reciprocated. All that mattered was that he was dead in front of her. For the first time in years he was just Harry, not the Boy Who Lived _or_ the Boy She Loved. Harry, who learned to conjure a Patronus when he was thirteen; Harry, who had confronted death annually since he turned eleven and never flinched before it; Harry, who had told Slughorn she was the brightest witch he'd ever known. Harry James Potter. Dead.

Only one word came to her lips: "_No!_"

None of them had had a chance to say goodbye. He was gone forever, and without warning. Just like everyone else in this empty war.

One of his arms dangled limply. Even from a distance, and in spite of the tears clouding her eyes, she could make out his features from where she stood, engraining them into her memory for the last time: He looked more innocent than Dobby, more at ease than Remus, and more valiant than he ever had before. It was a picture identical to a moment she remembered from one holiday at the Burrow, waking him and Ron rather impatiently; at the time she'd been hesitant to disturb that restful slumber, but looking back, she clung to the memory of his eyes blinking open, replaying it over and over in her head in hopes they would do the same now but knowing they never would.

An unrestrained flurry of magic came forth soon after the unveiling. And Neville, the boy who had taught her all about not judging people because of what he'd learned from his gran, showed them all just how wrong they had been about him for all those years. Because Neville was his parents' son, and she knew they would be proud.

Ginny was safe. Molly was safe. Bellatrix was gone, a puppet lying prone on the floor, but that would never bring back all the brilliant, amazing, fantastic people she had felled, nor would it erase the scars left on Hermione's arm. The dead never came back to life.

Well, except this one time.

"Protego!"

And just like that,the world turned again.

Hermione was going to puke, she just knew she was. She was so happy to see him alive, but so terrified at what was about to happen, that it was an uphill battle to refrain from hacking her insides up onto the floor that had once been the Great Hall.

"_I don't want anyone else to try to help. It's got to be like this. It's got to be me_."

And it was.

It was.

Ron reached him half a second before she did, and only because his arms were longer and his stride was quicker. But when they grabbed hold of Harry—their Harry, their wonderful, stupid, _brave_ Harry—the three of them were all that existed. Her shouts of joy were likely making the boys' ears ring, but there was nothing in the entire wizarding world that could make her care, because right then, once and for all, she knew that everything would finally be okay, or as close to okay as they would ever come again.

Ron and Hermione waited in the Hall, giving everyone else time to fawn over their newfound hero. Surrounded as they were by a strange mixture of jubilation and misery, Hermione wasn't sure whether to smile or cry, or laugh in relief. She settled for letting out a great whoosh of air, staring at the real sky above and missing the false one she was so used to. Long ago, she had read in a certain book that the ceiling was enchanted to match the sky. The memory was a fond one to her.

"Hermione?"

She looked over at Ron to see him scratching his neck. Noting his tired expression, she wondered how long it would be till the weight of the war left them. "Yes?" she answered. "What is it?"

"I've fancied you for a while," he said bluntly. "And I thought maybe—you know—" He shrugged. "But it's him, isn't it? I don't mind or anything—well, I _do_, but I'm not—I saw the way you were looking at him. Just like you always did, I guess, but I didn't notice before. Didn't want to, really."

"What are you—?"

"And he likes you too. I wouldn't be saying any of this, except I was thinking about what McGonagall said last year about… Dumbledore wanting there to be more love in the world and all that. And you can do what you want, Hermione. I just thought you should know."

They fell silent. "I don't understand," she said after a moment.

"This war's been bloody fucking awful." And she saw it in his weary eyes, the heavy losses they had suffered and would live with every day. One last time, for a short and painful moment, she wished in her heart that she could have fallen in love with him and maybe been happy. "The school's wrecked, all these people are dead—I might've pissed myself in that blast earlier—Merlin, I just want someone to be happy, Hermione. I don't care if you end up with Harry or Krum or—or _Grawp_. Just be happy."

In spite of herself, she giggled. "Grawp," she echoed. "Thank you, Ron." There was a brief pause and she softened her voice, saying, "Really, thank you."

"S'fine," he mumbled.

She cocked her head, taking in his profile with slumped shoulders and all manner of dirty and grime on his skin… and blood. "I've been meaning to say, you know, Lavender—"

"Died," he interrupted, eyes narrowing on the floor. "Greyback mauled her, nearly tore out her throat."

Hermione's mouth went dry. She had been there when the werewolf was savaging Lavender, made it perhaps seconds too late, but the girl was still moving when she had left. Hermione had thought someone would have come along to help, to fix her up. In the back of her mind was the image of Lavender nodding.

She had been on the verge of telling him what she'd been thinking earlier, about how he was leagues better than that girl, but in light of this development it would be the wrong thing to say. Instead she sighed. "Sorry, Ron," she said without knowing just what she was sorry for.

Before he could reply, a voice—_the_ voice, the one that mattered most—floated between them.

"_It's me. Will you come with me?_"

What a stupid question.

In what would forever be Dumbledore's office to them, hordes of old portraits greeted them with cheers. Harry made a beeline to their old headmaster's smiling, teary-eyed picture. The two of them spoke in vague words that would probably never make sense to her, but never needed to anyway. Harry could have all the secrets he wanted with Dumbledore. He'd earned the right. And the wand.

"_I don't want it_."

"_What? Are you mental?_"

"_I know it's powerful. But I was happier with mine. So…_ Reparo."

He had plenty of reasons to get rid of the Elder Wand, all good ones. After all, he was Harry Potter: Dumbledore's man through and through, a true Gryffindor. Planning on a long life and a natural death, fate permitting. That was certainly what they all wished him.

"_That wand's more trouble than it's worth. And quite honestly, I've had enough trouble for a lifetime_."

"Enough of the lethal kind, at least."

Harry, looking worn and exhausted beyond belief, turned his gaze to Hermione, who spoke with more strength and certainty than she felt at that moment.

"Yeah?" He regarded her with curiosity and surprise, as though having expected to simply walk off unperturbed after his last dramatic line.

She shared a raised-eyebrow look with Ron, who said, "Harry, mate, you don't know how to live without trouble."

"I could learn to!"

"Yes, I'm sure you'd be perfectly happy with a quiet desk job," Hermione said dryly. "Keeping your nose out of things that don't concern you, staying completely safe, never hexing a soul again…"

"Really sounds like the life for you," said Ron.

Harry glared at both of them in turn. "Then what am I supposed to do? I just defeated the most powerful Dark Wizard of our time! What happens next?" he demanded.

They shrugged. "Keep fighting," said Hermione. "The war's over, but there are still people who need saving."

"You could be an Auror like you wanted." Ron looked up at the portrait. "What do you think, then, Professor?"

"I think Harry will make an exemplary Auror, _if_ that is the path he chooses," Dumbledore said with the usual twinkle in his eye.

"I guess." Harry shifted, eyeing the door.

Unable to hold in it, Hermione laughed. The others, portraits included, all turned to stare. She put a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hold back the fit of giggles. "Hermione?" said Ron, tentative, as though she were on the verge of a breakdown.

"We're all dropouts!" she gasped out between chuckles. "None of us took our N.E.W.T.s or completed school! We're—we're young and unemployed!" Her body shook as she began to laugh so hard that tears slid down her face.

Ron chuckled. "Could finish up next year," he suggested, glancing at Harry.

The Boy Who Lived shook his head. A tiny smile crossed his features. "I think I might be bad luck for this place."

A good deal of time was spent resting after that. It took nearly a day for Harry to wake up once he made it to a bed, and the rest of them hadn't done much better. Hermione, for one, only got up after her twelve-hour reprieve because of her guilt at not helping restore the castle or tend to the wounded.

She found McGonagall giving out instructions to a group of students. "Is there anything I can do, Professor?"

The newly-appointed headmistress turned to her, eyebrows raised. "Miss Granger, I think you have done quite enough," she said with an unexpected measure of kindness.

"But I want to help. Just give me something to do, I can—Professor McGonagall, I need to do _something_," Hermione begged.

McGonagall peered over her spectacles. "Will you be returning to Hogwarts next year?"

Hermione was offended that she even had to ask. "Of course I will!"

"And after that, what are you going to do?"

"I'm…" She licked her lips. "I don't know," she confessed.

The older woman looked at her fondly. "For what it's worth, Miss Granger, there will always be work available for you at Hogwarts. Though I daresay the Ministry will be keen on finding something for you themselves," she said with a sigh. "Hermione, I want you to know, you would be—"

"Wasted as an Auror?" McGonagall nodded, looking surprised. "I know; I didn't plan on it anyway. Fighting's never been my thing. Maybe I could—well, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures might be a good fit."

"It may," said McGonagall. "And what would you do there?"

Hermione stared off into the distance. The sun was beginning to set already. Someone nearby was calling for help with a fallen pillar in the corridor; the man who rushed in to his aid looked like Seamus Finnigan, though his dirtied face made it impossible to tell.

"Establish rights for house-elves. And I suppose… werewolves could use quite a bit of help, couldn't they?" Rhetorical question. Werewolves always needed help.

"Fighting for the underprivileged, are you?" McGonagall asked softly.

"No one else will," said Hermione, eyes aglow with fierce determination.

"Well, if you want to help the less fortunate, you can start by aiding the families of the wounded and the deceased." She nodded and set off at a jog.

* * *

Next chapter marks the end. I want to apologize now for any and all severely out-of-character moments, of which I'm sure there are many.

So I'm not sure when it's going to happen, but I've been planning a big-huge-massive fic, which will be of a much greater length and caliber than this one. Be on the lookout, I guess!


	10. Sod It

Hours later, under the cover of night, she was on her way past the greenhouses when she spotted a figure by the trees. Wand drawn, she approached carefully before realizing who it was.

"Harry!" she called, lighting her wand with a quick nonverbal spell and waving as she made her way over to him.

He looked surprised to see her. "What are you doing over here?"

"They're checking all the secret passages again, just to be safe," she explained. "Percy and Dean and I were having a look at the Whomping Willow." Her voice lowered. "He isn't saying much. Percy, that is. Still beating himself up over Fred. I wish I knew what to tell him, but…" She shrugged, head drooping in defeat.

Harry, who was engulfed by fresh but oversized robes, touched her shoulder. "I don't think there's anything we can do to help them, Hermione. The only thing they want is for him to come back, and no one can do that."

"Except you," she corrected. He sighed, dropping his hand.

"Except me."

Something stirred in the forest, but nothing there could frighten her anymore. She was Hermione Granger; she had ridden a dragon, infiltrated the Ministry of Magic twice, broken into Gringotts under the guise of a murderer, saved a wanted criminal from certain death, fled from a werewolf, befriended a giant, fought Death Eaters, walked through fire, been petrified by a basilisk—there was nothing left in all the universe, magical or no, to scare her. At least that was how she felt.

"We've had a lot of adventures in that forest," she said. He hummed in agreement. "Hogwarts won't be the same without you, Harry."

"You can still write my essays for me, if it helps." She punched him in the arm; he laughed. "I might visit sometimes. You could take the Floo over on weekends, maybe."

Hermione nodded. "I'd like that," she said with a smile. "Where will you stay, then? Grimmauld Place?"

"I was thinking of moving to Godric's Hollow, actually," he admitted. "Sirius's house was always sort of… big for my tastes."

"Oh!" This was an interesting development. She would have thought he'd like to live in his godfather's former home, but he was right in saying it was quite large. More of a place for a family, she supposed, or a mixed group like they'd had in the days of the Order. "What's going to happen to it, then?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Dunno. The Order won't need it anymore, but I'd rather not just give it away."

An idea struck her. "I could take it. If you'll let me," she added. At his skeptical expression, she continued, "I'll need a place of my own after Hogwarts, and well, I'm sure some of the others will too—like Ginny and Luna, unless they'd rather stay with their families."

"I bet Ginny would love to move out," he said absently. "But with everything that's happened—"

"Right. Of course."

"Find at least three people," he said, turning to her, "and you can have it by this time next year."

She lit up. "All right, I can do that," she replied. "Thank you, Harry." She grinned genuinely, and in response he nodded.

There was something odd about his expression. She'd seen it before—but where?

"_But I don't think you're ugly_."

Oh.

She'd completely forgotten about that puzzling conversation with Ron. Yet now that she thought about it, maybe Harry did—well, _maybe_ didn't seem like the right word. _Probably_ would be more accurate: the look on his face was so obvious that it could mean nothing else, and she knew this because he looked at that moment the way she'd always felt when it came to him. A foreign emotion swelled in her that she couldn't pinpoint, like hope and anxiety and happiness and dread all at once. Now was the moment when she was supposed to declare her endless devotion, wasn't it? That was how it worked, right?

But perhaps not. It was the wrong time, and while Dumbledore had always been in favor of love prevailing and so forth, a day after the end of a war seemed too soon. She would not be like those couples who, in the midst of all the chaos, had married for fear that they wouldn't get the chance later. These were times of peace now, and there was no rush for her to do anything just yet.

She cleared her throat. "So, given any more thought to what you're doing next?" she asked.

"Think I might be an Auror. I didn't take my N.E.W.T.s, but something tells me I might be qualified enough," he said cheekily. Then he turned serious again, looking every bit as weary as he had after Dumbledore's passing. "A holiday first would be nice. Not sure the world would be too happy about that, though. Taking a break while everyone else cleans up my mess." He shook his head. "Maybe they're right. I should be helping, shouldn't I?"

It looked as though he wanted an actual answer from her. "I haven't a clue," she said honestly. "I know how you feel—thinking you haven't done enough when there's still so much out there that needs fixing. But all our friends, everyone on our side, they think we've already done our part. So is it selfish to want some time to ourselves, or have we earned it?" She sank to the ground, curling up just as she had in that chair in the study with her knees pressed up against her chest, back when she was just a teenage girl who liked to read. He sat down cross-legged in the grass next to her. "Someone gave me a bit of advice once that I think you should hear."

"Yeah?" He had begun picking at the grass; his hands always seemed to be occupied, like he couldn't keep them still.

"_Don't ever let the opinions of others dictate how you view yourself_," she recited, recalling the words with perfect clarity. "So bugger what everyone else says, Harry. Do what you think is right."

They sat in comfortable silence. With her wand she began drawing runes in the air, which hung for moments before fading. She'd have a lot of studying to do this summer in preparation for the school year; even if Ministry officials were tripping over themselves to hire her, she still wanted to get the marks to prove that she _deserved_ whatever she ended up with. It was something she did solely for herself.

"Holiday it is, then," Harry said abruptly. Hermione almost dropped her wand. "I'd ask you and Ron to come along, but I think we've had about enough of each other for a while."

"Only took seven years for you to get sick of us, did it?" she teased. "That's fine, I understand. Where will you go? Any ideas?"

"New Zealand, maybe. I'm not sure. Won't leave for another week or two, so I've got time. Oh, talking of that, you have to head down to Australia to fetch your parents, don't you?"

"Right. Not immediately, of course. Plenty of Death Eaters out there still," she said. "I doubt they'll cause much trouble now that their leader is _permanently _dead—but you never know." Trying not to think on the subject of her parents for too long, she asked, "So you're going alone?"

"Not the smartest idea, is it? I just offed the leader of the Dark Forces and now I'm going to disappear without any help or protection." He chuckled in amusement.

"I could go with you," she blurted. A blush rose to her cheeks. "That is—I could do with a holiday as well, and New Zealand sounds lovely, but if you really think—"

"No, no, that's fine!" he said quickly. "I was kidding about being around each other for too long. I just figured you wouldn't want to go, that's all." He lowered his voice to just above a whisper, even though no one else was around. "But we won't tell anyone until the day we're leaving. They'll have no idea we're even going anywhere."

She nodded enthusiastically. "Or we could owl them after we've left, and the press will start saying we've been murdered or we eloped because I was pregnant and didn't want anyone to know."

"And when we get back Mrs. Weasley will ask you if it was a boy or girl and whether she could be godmother," he said with a grin. "And Ron will wonder why he wasn't invited and the others will pester us for making—"

"Oh, so we really aren't taking Ron, are we?"

"Erm." This seemed to catch him a good bit off guard as he leaned back and blinked, pushing his glasses up. "Did you want to? I don't mind. We should bring him, shouldn't we?" He was rambling now, eyes fixed on the ground before him as though willing it to cut him off. "I mean, he's the third member of our group—not that there's an order! There isn't. It's just that with you and me we're only two-thirds of… of the three of us. Right?"

She relaxed her posture, legs stretched out in front, and leaned over to rest a hand on his knee. His head snapped up. "We don't _have_ to bring him," she said. "Really. He needs to stay anyway. His family…" She wasn't sure how to finish that sentence, so she let it drop.

"I don't think it's quite sunk in yet. For me, at least." He was looking at her exposed wrist; while his temporary robes were monstrously large, hers were on the small side. She wondered if she was supposed to move her hand now, then decided to leave it. "Who from our side…?"

"Well, you already know about Fred and—and the others." She swallowed back the knot forming in her throat. "Um. Colin, Colin Creevey—"

"I saw him," Harry cut in. "Oliver and Neville were carrying him. He snuck in, I suppose."

She chewed on her lip anxiously. "Most of the casualties were people we didn't know—wait. Lavender, too. Greyback got her." She didn't add that this one was partly her fault. If she'd been there moments sooner—if she had _known_—but she hadn't, and now Lavender was another stain on her hands.

"Lot of funerals coming."

"Yeah."

The ensuing silence was more strained than the last one. She definitely needed to move her hand, but that would call attention to its position, and maybe it would be less awkward if she just kept it there and acted like nothing was wrong. She just couldn't deal with awkward situations. Better to be on the safe side.

"Oh, _sod_ it," she cried emphatically, causing her companion to jump. At last she moved the offending appendage and spun around to face him directly. "Look, in case you hadn't noticed, I've fancied you for a long time now. And I have reason to think you feel the same way. But I don't want to rush into anything since there's a lot still going on and we have our whole _lives_ ahead of us. I'm eighteen years old and I just want to finish school so I can go ahead and start making a difference in the world, if—if I can." She paused to catch her breath. "And in spite of everything I just said, I would very much like to go on that holiday with you. If that's still all right."

He didn't say anything for a solid minute. After that he sighed. "This is really inappropriate timing, isn't it?"

"Tell that to _Ronald_," she muttered. "He was the one who kept going on about how you fancied me. _Right after we finished fighting_, too! He has no tact whatsoever, honestly, you almost shouldn't let him in public without having a handler to—"

"Hermione, wait."

She frowned at the interruption. "What?"

"Stop talking and enjoy the moment."

While she really just wanted to ask what the moment even _was_, she complied. The nocturnal sounds of the forest buzzed and croaked all around. It made her think of those relaxation tapes her mum used to listen to, minus the trickling streams and chirping fowl. It was pleasant, certainly. But something occurred to her just then that made the breach of silence necessary.

"Harry."

"I told you—"

"No, Harry, listen."

"What?"

She looked him square in the eye and said, "During the battle, Ron wet himself."

At first he just looked back at her. Then, "That is the second best thing that's happened all week."

She was equal parts disappointed and glad that they didn't start snogging then; the timing was all wrong. But then, it never seemed to be right, did it?

"Third best," he added suddenly, looking sheepish. "I forgot about Voldemort."

She grinned. There may, in fact, have been some snogging.

* * *

Welp, for better or for worse, that's all! I was going to make a sequel, but I have other projects to work on. The next one will be a multi-chapter fic that, once again, focuses on Hermione. But it will be completely different from this. At least I hope.

Let me know what you thought?


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